The Breaking
by Keil
Summary: Strange forces are at work against the remaining members of the Fellowship, but none feel it more than Legolas or Aragorn. Overall R just in case, but initial chapters will be PG-PG13.
1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

Characters and the world of Arda copyright Tolkien and all that.

This is my first LotR story. Actually, it's my first piece of fanfiction. Ever. It's been a long time since I've written anything, so the hinges are very, very rusty, but I'm hoping it will be at least a little enjoyable. It's also unbeta'd, but I reread it several times and ran it through spell check and all that good stuff.

I welcome any and all constructive critiques as I have no betas for feedback, and I may end up rewriting chapters at times, but will always make a note of it if I do.

This is actually the second revision of this chapter incase you'd read the first.

Note update: Future slash warnings, so if averse to this type of thing, you might not wish to read.  
Onwards...

**Chapter 1**

Three days and nights now he'd felt it; a pressure so real that if he was not sure of his own sanity he might expect to find someone's hands pressing into him, reaching through cloth and flesh to lean heavily into his insides. This was not the sort of thing that could escape his notice, and neither did he overlook the difference between the chill he would have expected and the way this feeling so often left this skin feeling branded. He was being watched. Lifting his elven eyes toward the encroaching false dawn glimmering with faint, dark hues over the horizon, he carefully upturned some soil and slid it over the last remaining embers of the small fire. It was one of the few times there had been both a need for warmth and a lack of danger -- while the cold affected his kind not at all, the night had brought an unusual chill and a wind slicing earnestly between the dagger-like spires surrounding them, cutting more easily into his companions than usual.

The lack of threat was not entirely rationalised in his mind, though neither the dwarf nor the man showed any awareness of the eyes he so constantly felt burning into him. No -- as far as the others were concerned, this time they were not the prize.

As the last elements of glowing charcoal disappeared beneath a heavy spray of loose earth, he turned his back on the cooling mass and immediately lashed out with one foot. The deep, soft snoring that had previously seemed almost an icon of the landscape was abruptly cut short by a grunt of surprise and a throaty grumble. "Up, Gimli," he ordered, stepping off toward his unused bedroll and kneeling to collect his things. "Dawn arrives and we fall farther behind our quarry." Before the dwarf could utter even an incoherent syllable of discord he added, "Aragorn will be waiting," and slung his quiver onto his back, pausing to run a set of slender fingers over his bow. All was in order.

Paying little heed to the garbled sounds of protest behind him, some of which should have at least garnered a raised brow in a show of amusement, Legolas shifted his gaze to the west, into the rocks and sparse trees that were too thin now to call a forest. A barren field of grey and brown stood gregariously in stark contrast to the sound of rushing water he could still hear floating on the wind from the east. It was but a moment before he caught sight of a figure in the distance at the crown of another rise; he had heard Aragorn depart while the stars had still been dancing brightly overhead, undimmed by the procession of the rising sun ready to force its way over the shoulders of the world.

He was not sure whether to call the man impatient, or the dwarf lazy, but if he were to choose the former he would have to apply it to himself as well, for he did not want to stop moving until the last of the Orcs had been slain. They had not taken even half a night's rest, and Gimli was really the only one who had taken advantage of the short respite. They must continue on keenly; the creatures they tracked showed no signs of slowing, and if they were to find the trail that had been lost sometime before the arriving dawn they could not compromise their fierce pace.

The elf shot a glance behind him, brows drawn downward in a show of impatience, although there was some humour behind his glare. "Gimli --"

"Right, right," the dwarf said darkly, slipping a last throwing axe through a thick leather hoop over his armour. "Can't fall behind, can we?" A gloved hand twisted part of his beard back into place, and he heaved a growl of a sigh before setting his feet into motion. Gimli was about to offer a few choice words about that lunatic of a ranger, but Legolas was already on the move, striding smoothly even in this labyrinth of tricky stone. And in truth, he would not have really agreed with his own words. Despite his inclination to take advantage of the dark hours for rest, he was as anxious to overtake the enemy as anyone else. With a grunt, he closed his gloved fingers around the handle of his double-headed axe and took of with steady, albeit much shorter strides, his bulky square boots crushing or tossing aside whatever plant or stone happened to fall in their path.

The terrain of the Emyn Muil was sharply undulating, rock and hill joining forces to great effect at slowing progress and often forcing one to spare a second thought for the placement of each step. Legolas could hear the dwarf's heavy footfalls some distance behind him, landing heavily on the ground and accompanied by various disdainful grumbling about this hill and that. He did not for a moment consider slowing -- if dwarves could live in those sunless mountain caves of theirs, surely they could see by the pale pre-dawn light whose blue hues were steadily being driven away by the hint of red and orange flames licking delicately at the indigo horizon. Above them the stars had begun to recede, fading softly into the night behind them, and the elf sung quietly to himself; it would not be long before they would reach the top of the large rise upon which the still silhouette of a solitary man stood, one knee bent and his hand resting on the pommel of his sheathed sword.

Legolas suddenly narrowed his eyes and cast a piercing glance into the shadows surrounding him. His flesh tingled at the sensation of eyes upon him, skin crawling beneath the heat of some unseen stare. He nearly broke stride, but as suddenly as it had come, it was gone, leaving him to feel somehow chilled. But the cold was brief --- so brief in fact that he was unsure whether he had felt it at all, especially without having ever truly experienced such a sensation before. The corners of his mouth tilted downward, but he pushed on until his feet carried him up the last rise and he came to a halt near Aragorn.

For a moment the man did not acknowledge him, rather stood motionless and lost somewhere in the grey distance, his eyes searching something that was not there. "Are you sure one of us should not carry Gimli?" the elf asked just loudly enough for the breeze to carry his voice back to the ears of their short companion. "The dwarf may have admirable stamina, but his legs appear to be of little use on such a swift journey as ours." At this his frown transformed into a smirk, but after a moment his mouth settled into a line and his brow lowered pensively. "Estel?"

The ranger's lack of surprise indicated he was well aware of his surroundings, however deep in thought he might appear. His expression was heavy, but somehow blank, which suggested there was more on his mind than just the trail laid out before them. Silence hung delicately in the air for a long moment before the echo of a deep sound of frustration snatched it from the air as a leaf caught in the wind, scattering across the hills and meeting their ears. It was then Aragorn turned, giving a laugh that was more of a forced breath than anything, but letting his lips twist into a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. He might have answered at last, but the stout shape of a running dwarf appeared and ambled towards them.

"I'd like to see the princeling try it," Gimli said gruffly, his voice sounding as if it had been scraped over as many rocks as the his boot soles. His jaw was set, but his eyes twinkled slightly beneath his helmet.

Legolas was about to retort when the sun finally broke into the eastern sky behind them, sending glittering deep golden rays to loosen the shadows' hold on the world, burning them out of crevices and corners. There was much to ponder this hour, as Aragorn indicated his discovery of a slaughtered group of orcs, some of whom appeared to hail from the north. Careful examination, however, yielded no clues as to the direction their game had taken, and Aragorn returned to scouring the land in ever widening circles looking for evidence. His sharp eyes were strangely unfocused as they took in every bent stem of grass, every depression and rise of dirt, the pattern of each scattering of rock. The smooth skin at the edge's of the elf's eyes barely crinkled as he watched the man, whose behaviour was not lost on him. He was used to his friend being somewhat stand-offish at times, even overly serious, but there had been a strange cloud over his face for the last day.

Boromir, perhaps; it had been only a short time since Gondor's son had fallen, since he had redeemed himself from the weight of the ring and given the very last thing he had to give in an attempt to prevent the shattering of the Fellowship, and save Merry and Pippin. He had borne himself valiantly out from under the spell of Isildur's Bane and paid with his life. Legolas had watched his last breaths with Aragorn at his side. He had been witness to their exchange of words, and it had been a heavy moment, the air filled with uncertainty and despair and more than a little anger, even if it had not entirely been a surprise. The ring might have taken them all had the Fellowship not broken as it had. But such things are hard on the heart and no less easy on the mind, especially when one was falling into step with his own fate, as was Elessar.

It was not long after Legolas spotted an eagle flying so high it was beyond the sight of any of his companions that they caught a glimpse of their quarry trampling across the hills in the distant fields, barely a smudge of motion on the horizon. With renewed energy, the group set about to discover the path the Orcs had taken out of this cursed place of razor sharp rock.

He could hear the dawn arrive in full, although its song was muffled by a cry to his right. Giving up his own scrutiny of the landscape, Legolas turned just in time to see Aragorn slipping off to the north -- he must have made a discovery. In an instant he was running after the ranger, catching up to the dwarf, who stood scowling. "He's found the way out," his shorter companion nearly growled before offering a keen-edged grin; if anything could get Gimli running, it appeared to be the promise of a chance to sever various body parts from the Orcs. Returning the smile, Legolas passed the now sprinting dwarf and headed up a water channel, seeming for a second to lead nowhere, until suddenly it deposited them without ceremony at the edge of Emyn Muil.

Before them, the earth appeared to drop off, tumbling downward in the form of a cliff wall that perhaps even the most skilled climber could not scale. But presently Aragorn discovered tracks leading down a narrow, stream crafted ravine. Rock and dust tumbled down after them, the sounds of their collisions echoing smartly off the solid stone walls. A few curses reached the elf's ears as he heard Gimli nearly take a fall, but the dwarf had righted himself he could see as he gave a quick backward glance. It was not long before the crags suddenly disappeared, and the grey of old weathered stone gave way to something much more alive.

Indeed, it was as if they had stepped from night into day as the desolate scape they now left behind was lost beneath a tide of thick, rolling green meeting the base of the cliffs -- the eastern border of Rohan. His face split into a grin as if he were breathing life for the first time, the elf glanced toward Aragorn. His intent to approach the man about his worries was out of time, here; talk of darker things could wait until a time when it would not mar such good news as the trail they saw laid out so blatantly before them. The grass of the fields was so thoroughly damaged it was blackened and nearly gone in places. Legolas took a few steps ahead of his companions to survey the fields. As soon as he had advanced a few paces, he shivered: there it was again, that burning feeling he knew should have been cool. His eyes closed almost to slits, he spun back to face the others, looking again the Aragorn. "Estel --"

"We should continue directly," the man said; his voice was hard and deliberate, as if he had just forced his jaw to unclench. "Come." Leaving no room for protest, Aragorn took off at once, eyes dark and cast downward at the trail spreading in a wide swath into the distance. Gimli seemed unfazed and followed without hesitation, determined to overtake the Orcs as much to destroy them as to save the little ones. Only Legolas lingered for any amount of time, a hand on one end of his bow while the other tip rested in the long grass. Perhaps Aragorn had felt it, too. Or perhaps he was not in the mood for conversation, it was hard to say -- but something was obviously troubling his friend. With a flick of his wrist, Legolas caught the bow by the middle and set off in pursuit with strides that easily brought him up to run alongside the others. The man would not meet his gaze, and he knew they were in for a longer journey than he had expected.

Through the day they ran on, their progress coming more easily on the open land with little worry of missing the trail. They ran on as the sun circled lazily overhead and fell into dusk, and set now in front of them as their path had turned westward. Estel had found the Lórien cloak pin of one of the hobbits, surrounded by tracks that indicated he'd managed to get away from his captors for a short time. With renewed hope which in turn gave them new strength, they took bites of lembas and kept running, sprinting, until the world was painted orange and purple and it felt as if they were passing through a dream. Until the purples calmed to blues and greys and made the landscape seem drenched in black and white. Until finally all the colour disappeared completely, and they only had the company of the stars and the waxing moon to see them through. Legolas sang the stars out in his native tongue as he did so many nights, making them seem to shine all the brighter. It was not until the moon set that they paused, watching the world go dark around them.

It was finally decided they should stop and rest, for fear of losing the trail or missing signs the hobbits might have once again escaped. Aside from Gimli, who seemed quite happy to stop for the evening, they made camp with reservation in the shelter of a jutting boulder atop a small hill. It was warmer within the valleys of the Riddermark, so there was no fire. Legolas watched Aragorn quietly as the man and Gimli prepared for sleep -- he was keen to go onward, but something strange was causing their hearts to weary, and in this way their bodies, too, wearied. It was not long before the familiar snoring of the dwarf indicated he was fast asleep, and the man finally turned to look at the elf.

"I will take watch. You rest, my friend," Legolas said, though he knew it was not necessary. He did not need sleep, and he would not take it this night. If he needed it at all, he might let his mind wander to home and along dream-paths even as their steps carried them farther across the plains.

Aragorn nodded, his eyes almost black beneath the shadow of his brow, and he tore his gaze away to lie quietly on his bedroll. He knew he would not sleep well, so he folded his hands over his chest and watched the stars for a while. The elf's voice drifted to him on the wind, and he was not surprised none before the elves had ever sung, for this sound could make all others in the world seem like some terrible cacophony. His chest rose and fell heavily as a sigh escaped him, but he closed his eyes and let the sound lull him into a fitful rest he had not seen since the start of their journey.

As his song ended, voice fading and rising up toward the sky as if it intended to take root with the sparkling stars, Legolas drew his knees up to his chin where he sat on the boulder. He let the wind carry its stories from the western valley and wash over him. Breathing deeply, he savoured every scent that was shared with him on the breeze, and closed his eyes. He heard nothing but the distant call of some birds and the rustling of foraging creatures. And the breathing of his companions. He eyed Aragorn as the man tossed in unquiet nearby, gaze growing sharp. The knot which had been building in his belly for the past few days tightened, and he found himself annoyed that he thought he should go wake the man and tell him he must only be dreaming. He was sure this ache in his gut was only the disintegration of the Fellowship; he did not let the others know of the depth of his sorrow for the events which had unfolded the previous day. Frowning, he lifted his gaze once again to concentrate on his watch. It was not long before he heard stirring below, and the scraping of thick leather over stone.

"Are you certain you require no rest?"

He was not startled by the voice, but did turn towards it. Aragorn had joined him on the stony outcropping, but did not move to sit. Legolas offered a soft snort of mock offence and turned away again. "Certain, yes," he said, a smile evident in his voice. "If I begin to feel tired or faint," he continued lightly, "I will merely take a sip of miruvor, and you will not have to worry about needing to come to my rescue." He waved absently with a slender hand.

It was the ranger's turn to snort, although beneath the amusement in the sound, Legolas sensed something coursing deeper. Indeed, Aragorn said nothing after this, rather stood in silence watching the fields for a long time. Watching, but not entirely seeing them. It may have been a long while, but measurements of such things as time are relative, especially to an elf, but at length Legolas felt a hand on his shoulder, its fingers tense but not gripping tightly. "Hannon le," and the hand and the source of the words were gone. His head pivoted only far enough to see his jerkin remained uncrumpled where the hand had rested, as if it had not been there at all, but he could hear Aragorn's steps as the man departed, even if he did walk like one of his kin.

Legolas frowned and climbed to his feet while smoothly dusting himself off. The rustle below told him the dwarf was also awake, and he navigated the drop off the boulder with a nimble leap and joined them. He was surprised to find Gimli nearly ready, and for a moment was disappointed he hadn't been able to kick his friend awake again. The thought manifested itself in a smirk that did not escape th dwarf's attention.

"Thought you might get to carry me?" he asked the elf as he secured an axe into straps across his back.

Instead of answering, Legolas offered a cutting but humourous smile and a mock bow. Gimli chuckled at this and then jerked his head in the direction of Aragorn's departing back. "A bit quiet, isn't he?" He lifted a hand to smooth his beard absently before turning back.

Making a non-committal sound, Legolas nodded and followed Gimli's gaze, running a thumb and forefinger down the string of his bow. "It is curious." But he said no more, for a falter in Estel's stride indicated he'd overheard them. He stopped himself from rolling his eyes and looked back to Gimli, mouth pulled to the side somewhat. "A bit _loud_ aren't you?" he asked good-naturedly, although his expression was creased with worry.

"Oooh," came the grudging reply that was more grumble than word. "Let's go. Or are you going to stand around all day singing?" He lifted his axe in one hand and headed after Aragorn, a guffaw winding its way back to the elf's ears. Legolas stood where he was and pondered Gimli's form for a moment -- from the back he appeared not unlike a large, trotting pony. He flashed a grin that went without witness and ran off to catch them up, sparing a wide eyed glance at the disappearing stars sinking into the deep blue field above, and began singing once again in a voice that carried just far enough to be heard by his friends. Gimli smiled to himself; he could not deny the sound of the elf's voice was something he enjoyed, and he was certain, or nearly so, one could tell evil from good by whether or not a creature fled before its sound.

The night fell heavily on a day of little talk and less food, though the lembas truly was a blessing. This night, as the others, they were forced to pause in their pursuit lest the cover of darkness disguise some sign of importance. Always the one to take advantage of such moments, Gimli was quickly adrift in slumber. Aragorn lay still enough to appear sleeping, but his breath was ragged and uneven.

"What troubles you?" Legolas asked suddenly, keeping his face expressionless, his voice soft enough so it did not disturb the quiet of the field, rather seemed as if it might belong. With a graceful motion he bent his knees and settled down across the small fire from Aragorn.

The sound of breathing ceased, and one might have wondered if it was going to begin again so long was the air still. "'Tis nothing but the toils of our journey, Legolas," the man finally replied, one arm lifting up so he might run a hand through unkempt hair. After a moment he shifted on the ground and pushed himself up to mirror the elf. "You have seen the way something in these lands works against us, and gives those creatures some strange advantage of speed over these hills." Absently he ran a thumb along his ring finger, feeling the cool metal band and sliding it over his skin.

Legolas kept his eyes on the ranger's though Aragorn refused steadily to meet them, and instead insisted upon staring into the fire. "You are too quiet my friend, ever since we left the Anduin behind us."

Without looking up, Aragorn replied, "Where Boromir was lost and Merry and Pippin taken? Where the Fellowship was destroyed leaving us with barely enough shards to wonder if indeed we have strayed far enough for hope of defeating Sauron? Do you expect something else?" His voice was throaty and game barrelling out through his teeth. He glanced toward Gimli, but his voice had no disturbed the dwarf. He doubted much could, right now.

The elf frowned -- there was anger in the undercurrent of so many of the ranger's action of late. "You sound as a man without hope to drive his heart," he said after many minutes.

"It is nothing, Legolas." Aragorn made as if to lie down, but again changed his mind. "I am just letting this weariness get to me."

Legolas nodded. "Then get some sleep. I will take the watch." With as smooth a motion as he had dropped to the ground, the elf once again stood and turned from the fire. His breath hitched, then, and his shoulders stiffened under the heat of skin feeling as if it were being ever branded. He felt someone's eyes boring into him once again, like fire in a forge onto cold steel. Spinning around, he thought he saw the last of the slowly fading embers mirrored in a pair of eyes in the darkness beyond. But then it was gone, and Aragorn was already shifting on his bedroll with his back to the dying flames. The next time, he was going to ask Estel whether or not he'd felt it even if the man had found his most restful sleep in years.

Well before dawn the sleeping pair woke to find Legolas again ready to be on the move. The elf's eyes held a distant somberness, and as they gathered their things beneath the red dawn and set off once again at top speed, it soon became clear they were at least a day and a half behind now. They had lost much time even though it appeared their quarry had rested a while, and though Gimli was weathering such a gruelling quest as well as his friends, he indeed felt a heaviness upon his soul that bent his back and made his strides shorter. Aragorn's face was drawn, and his own stride seemed weaker. Only Legolas seemed to be as fleet and light as before, leaving no footprints behind him as he ran. But they kept hoping, and so kept moving.

The insistent roar of the Entwash could be heard to the west, and as the day grew late the tracks became more sparse, nearly disappearing over ground, which had become much more solid and riddled with stone, holding fewer things for the Orcs to blacken and destroy along the way. Near the ending of the day a dark swath on the horizon became visible, and they stopped once more in sight of the dark jutting peaks of the Mist Mountains and th darker slab of Fangorn Forest below it.

A cold wind carved its way down from the snowy peaks that lay hidden in heavy bellied cloud to the north, and so Aragorn and Legolas went about collecting wood for a fire. It was in the shadows of the dark evening that the elf called out suddenly. "Aragorn!" He dropped his bundle of kindling and before it his the ground had drawn an arrow to his bow.

A quiet haunted the air, and within it a moment that, if one were listening for it, all the night's creatures seemed to cease their speech. In another moment to short to measure a voice broke the stillness. "Legolas?" came the call as the shape of a man approached, sword at the ready.

"I must ask you, Estel," the elf said gravely and not without some impatience, "have you felt as though we are being watched?" His boots made no sound over the grass and leaves as he slowly turned a circle and squinted out into the surrounding landscape.

Aragorn's jaw tightened until it nearly popped, and he dropped his hand from Andúril, curling his fingers instead into a fist. "Do you sense something, Legolas?" he asked slowly, allowing himself to turn and stare off into the deepening dark when the elf finally looked in his direction. "I have neither seen nor felt anything since we left the Falls of Rauros behind us, save for those we chase."

The elf did not overlook the hand that was now missing from the sword, and the corners of his mouth turned downward to match the movement of his brow. "Tell me what it is, friend," the elf said slowly, but steadily, not yet ready to loosen the tension on his bowstring. Now was not the time for games, and the Aragorn he knew was not the type to play them. There was something the man kept hidden behind those eyes, and it grew stronger the more they removed themselves from the ring.

"There is nothing," Aragorn insisted a bit too harshly. "Perhaps it is the same thing which works to tire us so, yet harry the Orcs." His excuse was a weak one, and he knew it, but he hoped it was enough to sate the elf's sudden curiosity. In truth, he would not know what to say anyway.

His answer drew a nod from Legolas, who decided not to press the issue for the time being. Again, he felt a knot in his stomach as he watched the ranger return to his wood gathering. Still, he could not tell from where it came, nor its reasons for settling itself so heavily in his gut.Maybe this chase was affecting them all more than they realised, or could understand. Watching the night swallow his friend, he nearly scowled. The elf stood for a long moment before finally scooping up his discarded pile of sticks and branches, and finally headed back to camp. Gimli was already snoring soundly.

With a shake of his head Legolas said, "I do not think he would wake even if the enemy came thundering back over him."

Aragorn had already gotten the first sparks of the fire going, and was feeding the smaller twigs and branches into the hungry flames before finally adding the thicker tree limbs. "I would call it a draw," he replied with a hint of a smile, "between sleep and slaughter for that one." Standing up, he brushed the remnants of dirt and splinters off his hands and stepped back. "You will take watch?" he asked in a moment of wry mirth that seemed so rare these days as he arranged himself for sleep.

With a nod of his head, Legolas narrowed his eyes a fraction while he studied Aragorn. "Of course," he said simply, not realising he'd lifted his hand and placed it supportively against his abdomen. The man broke eye contact and set off in search of rest, while Legolas was left to turn his attention to the sky. He spent his time walking the land and singing softly to himself, but in the back of his mind, he realised the knot in his stomach was getting tighter still, and he set to trying to unravel it.

Time passed quickly, and for once Gimli appeared to have as much trouble finding the dream world as Aragorn. Often they would wake and watch the elf as he paced to and fro, creating melodies and spinning them off into the night, and for the most part ignoring them. It was only towards morning when he was certain beyond all measure that there was someone there. He turned, glaring, behind him, eyes glistening and aimed toward the circle around the campfire, where his friends were sleeping. The fire bathed things in sharp relief, and his gaze was at last met, again a pair of intense eyes flickering orange and gold as a mirror of the burning wood before them. Mirrors which were, behind the flame painting, a steely, grey blue.

"Aragorn."


	2. Chapter Two

**Author's Notes:**

Characters and the world of Arda copyright Tolkien and all that, no money being made, utmost respect for his works.

Many thanks to those who took a moment to let me know they liked Chapter 1! Hopefully (I say that a lot, don't I?) I will be able to continue on with the same success. I definitely aim to try!

At this point things are still unravelling themselves to me. I am attempting to remain within the boundaries of book canon as possible, and to keep that character as IC as possible as well. I hadn't realised how difficult trying to tell a story around a story could be.

This chapter is a quite bit shorter than others will be because so little time has passed and I didn't want to draw it out too long. I wanted the encounter with the Rohirrim to fall between chapters as my intention is to expand on parts of the book without rewriting it.

[Insert repeated slash warning here] There isn't any yet, but just so no possibilities come as a complete surprise.

**Chapter 2**

His cry seemed to dissolve. There was but a vault of blackness enveloping the frigid fire which was carving, into the orbs behind it, a deep contrast of amber and gold. Legolas was not about to allow himself to become transfixed at such an ethereal sight -- the fate of the Wood had long since accustomed him to the dangers the Darkness had wrought upon this world. In less than an instant he had drawn and knocked an arrow, aiming steadily in the space between those burning eyes. Scarcely a second had passed, but it was enough to set the elf's skin crawling with some foreign heat just beneath the surface; at last he was confronted with the source of his recent ill-ease, and he was determined to put and end to this now. In one smooth motion he increased the tension on his bow, careful to keep the path of his arrow true, as he stepped around the campfire so he might see beyond it.

Legolas's focus was cleaved in twain by a sound that came scattered from his left, and he was forced to rely on his finely tuned reflexes to shift his balance, retreating backward to widen his field of vision. In the sparse moments these movements took, the sound had turned to a growling, and the small flames ahead of him came to the verge of burning themselves out. Vanished were the eyes before the elf's piercing gaze. He did not lower his bow.

"What is it now?" The query came thickly, almost in a roar, and between the shadows Legolas could see Gimli rising swiftly from the ground, alert though he had just been heavy in slumber. His call to Aragorn must have woken the dwarf, but that Gimli had been roused in the middle of the night was not his immediate concern; his disquiet rested in Aragorn's direction, and it was there he turned his attention, his eyes fraught with worry.

"Aragorn!" he repeated more fiercely this time, uncertain as to whether he had come to any harm. But the man was already climbing to his feet, pushing himself upward in a nimble motion with one arm and drawing his legs beneath him as his free hand reached for his sword. He was up only a breath after Gimli and casting a furtive glance around him for any present dangers, rubbing his jaw along his free arm's sleeve. When he saw nothing which posed a threat, he turned back to the elf with an eerily penetrating stare, the shadows thrown from the light at his feet exaggerating the angles of his face, making his eyes seem sunken and rimmed with black.

"What is it, Legolas?" he asked, his voice sounding strained almost to the point of breaking. His grip flexing on the leather of his sword handle, causing the leather to protest slightly, and he recovered to the point his voice sounded only gritty, perhaps from sleep. "Do you sense something near?"

"Did you not see it?" the elf asked with more than a hint of incredulity, finally lowering his weapon, though he did not relax the tension that placed his arrow at the ready. He lifted his chin toward the area between the fire and the ranger's bedroll. "It was just before you, nay, right on top of you I should guess, and you were unaware?" Without moving his head, Legolas let his eyes wander to the left and then the right before hastily looking back to Aragorn.

The man cast his own eyes downward as if to look for signs left by this thing of which the elf now spoke. He was somewhat taken aback by the outburst, and the soles of his boots rustled the sparse grass as he shifted his weight. "What is it you saw?"

Gimli, who had armed himself without hesitation upon standing, cleared his throat. "I saw nothing, nor heard nothing," he said, providing each of his companion with a curious look as he searched their faces. His words hung in the air until the elf finally tore his gaze from Aragorn to look at him.

"And you, have you not felt as if something were watching us these last days?" If there was any panic driving the frustration evident in his voice, Legolas was not letting on. But it was obvious enough the fair haired elf thought something amiss.

A deep frown marred Gimli's features, and he reactively turned in place as if he might now sense something to which he had so far been oblivious. "No," he said carefully once his eyes had fallen again on Legolas. He watched the elf for a moment, sparing Aragorn a surreptitious glance, and wondered if in fact his own senses might be failing him -- perhaps there _was_ something out there and he was too focused on one task to notice it. "What do you see, then, elf? My eyes are keen, but they have spent much time in darkness this evening, and my ears in quiet." He placed the head of his axe on the ground and rested both hands atop the end of the handle.

For a moment Legolas appeared as if he could at any moment launch into a string of unwholesome curses, but his composure did not break, and instead he merely set his jaw with lowered eyebrows and stared hard into the dying fire; slowly he removed the arrow from his bow and slid it back into his quiver. Something was terribly wrong here, and he refused to consider that he might be losing his mind. Nay, it was not possible. "Then it must be nothing," he said finally, lifting his head and turning to take a few steps away from the group. "A trick of the eye, a mixing of exhaustion and inconstant firelight. The same black forces at work all around us which begin to plunge this land into shadow, and take with it all those that inhabit its borders." He was well aware how similar his statement sounded to the one given by Aragorn only a few hours earlier, but he desired not to let himself be forced into any other explanation. No, not now.

"Perhaps some rest, then," Gimli ventures in earnest, though he held high doubts that the elf would take his suggestion with any measure of sincerity.

"You take yours, Gimli, it is well deserved," Legolas said absently. "I will rest as soon as we have completed this quest, and Merry and Pippin rest safely within our guard." His voice was stronger now, but the eyes staring stoicly off over the plains were not shining with hope as they had in days previous. He breathed the night air deeply, letting it fill his chest and work to calm him. Wanting to put some distance between himself and the experience, he paced off beneath the light of the remaining stars.

A half growl of protest was aimed at Legolas's back -- the dwarf wished, it seemed, to say something else, but had thought better of it and returned to his place beside the flickering flames. He settled himself on the ground, but did not expect to sleep again before the sun rose.

Aragorn had not said anything after the elf's well delivered parry. Its meaning was certainly not lost on him, and, had their circumstances not been so dire, the idea of the elf saying he was addled by exhaustion might have made him laugh. All he could do now was offer a nod to the dwarf as his friend set out on a search for the dream world again; but he did not relax. His shoulders were strung more tightly than Legolas's bow had been, and he stood, turning his eyes to watch the last flame flicker out and curls of smoke spiral into the darkness that now surrounded them. As the elf retreated out of sight, the last of the smoke dissipated into thin air, and Aragorn felt a wave of nausea wash over him, strong enough to force him to his knees. He nearly fell to the ground as he crossed his legs, hitting the earth heavily and feeling some of the air leave his lungs. Resting his elbows on his knees, he sat in silence until the sun rose.

The dawn broke without song, and the thought came unbidden to Aragorn that Legolas had made no sound he could hear in the hours since the incident. As the light began to pour over the land like a slow wash of tide, he could see his friend some ways off, standing facing the north and west, unmoving. He took in the scene with a little pain, and finally gathered his feet beneath him and pushed himself up. His joints groaned softly in protest; he had not moved since he had succumbed to near sickness earlier. He kicked at the mound of charcoal before him with a boot to see if it might flare up again, but it was too cold, and the remaining wood disintegrated into a thick black powder at his touch. Gimli had finally fallen asleep again an hour before, and his hallmark rasping breath was drifting up and down on the breeze.

Aragorn grimaced, running a calloused hand roughly through his hair as if he might drag out whatever weighed so heavily upon him with such a simple gesture. He was no longer unwell, but a ghost of the feeling remained, as if he had received a fierce blow to the stomach and the pain had faded, leaving only a mark in its place. He took a moment to collect his thoughts, folding his arms across his chest and breathing slowly in and out. Finally, he stepped away from the camp, dropping his arms to his sides and slowly approaching Legolas.

"I do not think you mistaken," the ranger ventured as he drew within several paces of the elf. His words were slow and considerate, as if it took great effort to form them and allow the sound to escape past his lips.

Legolas did not turn, but held up a graceful hand instead. "We all hold our secrets, Estel, some buried deep enough it feels as if we might never unearth them. But there are those which would allow the Shadow that so readily tries to engulf the world to swallow us more easily." It was then he turned, his elven-eyes like ice yet not unkind, for they were rendered dark with worry. "Something is amiss, my friend, and though I will trouble you no more after this unless I hold good reason, I ask you again to grace me with the reasons behind your strange silences and all the glances that fall askance." After a pause, in which Aragorn remained composed but silent, he added, "Do you think it so strange for one to find cause for concern when his friend will not meet his eye?"

Aragorn could not help but feel somewhat shamed at this. He felt compelled to reach out to his friend, but kept his hands still by his sides, and somehow managed to avoid wringing them, or crossing his arms. "Of course I do not think it strange." He straightened his back but stood motionless otherwise, getting lost in the smell of fresh grass and distant rolling waters. At length, he lifted his chin. "I cannot say." Legolas's brow drew downward and he frowned, but he held the ranger's gaze. "No -- I mean it not that way." Aragorn hissed softly in frustration. "In all honesty I can tell you I know of no secrets I keep which would be cause for such regard. And if I know of none, either my mind serves to keep them from me, or else none exist." And it was truth, but he feared the possibility of the former, as his mind did seem to be playing at some unknown game.

Often did his heart leap to beat hard within his breast, as if it might at any time burst though his rib cage, and more and more did his eyes rove to places he'd never before lingered a glance. It angered him, with visions of losing others as he had Boromir or Gandalf before him had been lost. He was no stranger to death or pain and had borne witness to more than enough atrocity to steel himself for anything. He could not corner the source of cold sweats and sleepless nights, and he feared it would get worse.

All the sounds of the valley could be heard, and the rushing of the distant Entwash suddenly seemed deafening in the quiet that followed. It was clear the elf remained unconvinced, and perhaps had even taken some small injury at the words, but if he did, he was not about to dwell upon it. Aragorn found he could no longer keep his hands still, and reached out toward Legolas to put a hand on his shoulder. To his astonishment he found his wrist caught by a nimble hand, and Legolas took a step closer, his eyes reminiscent of a stalking cat. The ranger inhaled a bit too sharply as he avoided wincing at the surprising pressure being applied to his arm, and awaited whatever harsh words that waited to fall from the elf's lips.

But none came.

Rather, the blue eyes under the stern line of the elf's forehead were ripped from his and he felt them roving over his face, resting now and then before moving on. The entire thing lasted but briefly, and then his arm was all but thrown back at him and Legolas was gone, striding back toward Gimli.

He balled his fingers into fists and clenched them so tightly his battered nails left half moons on his palms, and would have drawn blood had they been just a fraction longer. A defeated snarl escaped his clenched teeth and he shook his head in an effort to clear it. He had little luck in this venture. Legolas had not accepted his answer -- the elf would remain true to his word, but Aragorn knew he could not evade this forever. What did his friend expect? The recent months were no secret, the weight they each bore was shouldered between them all and attempting to unearth the things that might lay beneath the surface could do as much to weaken as to strengthen. Aragorn's anger flared at this thought, despite his knowledge he knew he was merely hedging the undeniable. His problem lay in his inability to decipher precisely what it was he fought to deny.

A pain in his jaw brought him back to the present; he was grinding his teeth. It was a recently obtained habit, and one he should stamp out soon enough. A raucous curse split the air, and though he might have stood there forever, Aragorn made his way back to the camp, where Gimli was standing indignantly and attempting to stare down Legolas.

"I would do the same to you," the shorter one said, glowering, "if I weren't sure your ribs couldn't handle it!" This earned naught but an arched brow on the part of the elf. Legolas acknowledged the man's arrival with no more than a locked gaze, and gave a wide berth to Aragorn's belongings. The tension was stronger than the new wind blowing in from the east, and Gimli eyed his companions as he quietly situated his throwing axes.

While Aragorn belted his scabbard around his waist and sheathed Andúril, the dwarf attempted to divert the tension. "You, elf, need to calm down, unless you plan to run circles round the Uruks until they dizzy and pass out from exhaustion."

For a moment it appeared to be a one sided exchange, but after a hard stare Legolas shook his head and laughed. "Better me than you!" was all he said before he took off over the grass. "Come, Gimli!"

The dwarf gave an exasperated shake of his head which was easily countered by a good natured chuckle. Seeing that Aragorn was ready to be on the move, he hoisted higher the axe he carried and started after Legolas. Without pause, the ranger readjusted his quiver and took up his place in another arduous day of travel, chasing down the enemy. Another day yet of running, running: on without end. But today, it was not long before they found themselves outnumbered by scores, and surrounded with razor edged steel at their throats.


	3. Chapter Three

**Author's Notes:**

Characters and the world of Arda copyright Tolkien and all that, no money being made, utmost respect for his works.

Again, thanks to those who left the encouraging comments!

**This is a second revision, very little was changed, however. Chapter 4 will be out on, or shortly after, midwinter; the action take a jump in the next chapter as well.**

**Gwyn**: At the moment this is as canon a missing piece scene as I can manage. The presence of campfires before the night after their encounter with the Rohirrim is questionable but adds to the piece (I can explain this further for anyone if they wish). I am anticipating it will begin to push the borders of AU, but it all depends on what this story is able to extract from my head. :)

**Konjurer**: Thanks for both comments on the first two chapters! Also thanks very much for the offer of beta-ing, that was very nice of you :)

Chapter 3 picks up after the Three Hunters depart the company of Éomer and his men and once again take up their search for the lost hobbits. I am unsure as to the existence of tortoises in Middle Earth, and apologise if I've missed something that said there were none. Also, I'm rather annoyed at how poor I am with dialogue (I always have been), especially Gimli's, so I hope it's not too terrible.

Okay, enough notes!

**Chapter 3**

At last they took their leave from the Riders of Rohan. It had been uncertain enough a meeting at first, as upon contact they had been surrounded, encircled by men upon their great war horses with long spears aimed at the Three Hunters like the spokes of some giant wheel. And if this was not a bad enough thing already, Gimli had done quite a job offending Éomer, the Third Marshal of the Riddermark, and Aragorn had done well to step in once Legolas had aimed an arrow at the son of Éomund before anyone could blink an eye. The ranger's words had safely eased the tension, and at length they had been lent horses of some of the Rohirrim's fallen men. Hasufel, a great dark grey beast, became Aragorn's mount, and a lighter but still fiery steed, Arod, had come to Legolas. The elf had sent both saddle and bridle away with the men of Rohan, and had leapt lightly up without use for such things to find the horse tame and eager beneath him. Behind him rested Gimli, who had not wished to borrow nor be bothered with a horse, and so sat gripping the elf, ill at ease as if certain it meant life or death.

Away they galloped, covering ground quickly, and soon the group of Rohirrim were but a small, dark motion fading rapidly in the distance. The horses were fast, and they sped toward the banks of the Entwash and the trail of which Éomer had spoken like ghosts of the plain. The tracks of the riders that hastened back from the Wold were much easier to follow than the sparse evidence that remained of the group of Orcs as they had fled in front of the mounted pursuit. They hurried east along the trampled ground and toward the Wold, careful to keep enough distance from the trail to avoid marring it with the hooves of their own horses. Many times Aragorn would ride ahead and dismount, approaching the path and inspecting the ground -- crawling over every disturbance that caught his eye. Legolas found himself more often than not watching the ranger work, though rising beneath the admiration for the man's tracking skills was something that made him frown darkly, something he could not yet label. At last it became easier to follow a sparse trail of fallen Orc bodies than to keep up with the sights of marked earth and bent grass. Here and there along the way were twisted corpses, more often than not with grey feathered arrow shafts protruding from neck or chest.

Afternoon wore on and still they rode, more hopeful now as the horses ate up the land in huge strides, and the distant mark of shadow that was the Forest of Fangorn came to be large enough to discern the presences of individual trees. Clouds hung heavy in the sky, rolling darkly and obscuring the sun, though rain did not fall. Because of this the light seemed to fade early, and more quickly than usual, but it was about this time they reached the edge of the old forest. In a large glade they discovered a pile of smouldering ashes, the remains of the Orcs that had been slaughtered in the recent battle. Nearby lay a pile of bruised and battered gear of war: cloven shields, broken swords and cracked helmets. In the centre of this pile, overlooking the smoking dead, was the head of a goblin impaled upon a stick, its empty eyes watching the burning bodies and looking after the departed soldiers that had earlier slain him. As well, not far from there, near where the Entwash poured from between the trees, was a mound of freshly tilled earth surrounded by fifteen spears -- the fallen Rohirrim.

The riders dismounted, Aragorn stepping deftly out of the stirrups. Gimli had more trouble with this task, and despite the attempt by Legolas to assist him, the dwarf ended up tumbling to the ground and writhing on his back for a few moments. "You, my friend, remind me well of a stranded tortoise," the elf said with little, or perhaps no, attempt at concealing his amusement. Gimli struggled and righted himself before springing to his feet, shooting his fair haired friend a glare that might have struck a lesser being dead on contact and then strode away, mumbling something about 'fell beasts' and cooking. Legolas gave one last chuckle and shook his head as he slid effortlessly from the back of his steed.

Leaving the horses picketed, they set to scouring the land as the light finally abandoned them completely, leaving them swimming in darkness once again. No trace of the little ones had yet been found, and each of the company could not help but feel somewhat heartsick as the possibilities of Merry's and Pippin's fates narrowed. It was with lowered eyes they came to make camp beneath the eaves of an old chestnut tree, whose dried leaves whispered softly in the encroaching night. Between the chill air and Gimli's insistence, they decided to build a fire, and the dwarf set out to gather wood.

"'Tis not safe to cut from the living trees," Aragorn warned with a wary glance into the deep dark behind the populous trunks of the trees. "Make sure only to gather wood already dead for the fire, and do not wander too far." He settled himself with his back against the trunk of the old chestnut tree, hearing the leaves shiver slightly above him. There was no argument from Gimli, who was out of all of them the most suspicious of the ancient wood, and insistent upon keeping his axe at his side.

Legolas stood not far from Aragorn, looking out across the Wold and into the eastern night. No stars joined them this evening, hidden stealthily in the pitch that stretched forever overhead. After some time, he turned toward the forest, peering keenly into the obscurity of the trees, and seemed to be listening to the distant calling of voices. Gimli was out of sight, busy collecting kindling, and the only disturbance in the air was a muted groaning that sounded as if it hailed from far over the hills in the depths of Fangorn, wafting down the slopes and busying the elf's ears. His mind left the sounds of the forest behind after a while; his skin had not crawled so heatedly under scrutiny since before their encounter with the Rohirrim, but he now discovered the uneasy feeling had returned to some degree. With a slight grimace marring his otherwise placid features, Legolas turned his head in Aragorn's direction.

The ranger was lost deep in thought, else he might have taken notice of the elf's movement much sooner. A pair of penetrating blue eyes met his, and the seconds stretched on much longer than he would have liked, he thought, before he was able to rip his gaze away and banish it instead to the ground before his boots. Indeed, aside from discussion pertinent to the quest before them, there had been few words exchanged in the past day -- less, even, than the quiet days that had preceded that. Aragorn did not know if he expected the elf to speak, but no words came to his ears. Though he could feel the other's eyes seeming to pin him to the trunk behind him for such a long time, he found himself scowling and was nearly brought to say something himself. Even as he looked up again the feeling disappeared, and Legolas was now looking back at the woods. The rustling of leaves and the soft scrape of boot over rock signalled someone's approach, and but a few seconds later, Gimli appeared from the shadows with a bundle of wood piled so high in his arms it obscured half of his face.

Their sheltering tree appeared to enjoy the warmth of the fire Gimli built, its higher boughs drawing downward and seeming to rub its leaves together like old, dry hands. As Legolas commented on the strange behaviour of their plant companion, they fell into a lengthy discussion of the ancient forest, and Gimli once again made known his aversion to its peculiar presence. The light haired elf passed on Celeborn's warning not to push too deeply into the heart of the wood, and the others nodded their approval.

"You might be safer without an axe," Legolas pointed out rather cheekily to the dwarf, without a second thought to entering the forest unarmed.

Gimli's eyes widened slightly as if he were appalled, and one side of his mouth twitched before he spoke. "If I didn't know better," the dwarf said, "I would swear you were trying to get me killed, elf." His voice was light-hearted but for a small tone that undercut it with a seriousness that proved his aversion well.

Legolas flashed him a sympathetic smile, and they drew lots for watches. The first fell on Gimli, and Aragorn reminded him once again about taking only the dead wood for the fire, and to let it burn out rather than stray too far in search of more fuel. At last, the ranger and the elf each settled in their places and fell quickly asleep. The elf's eyes remained open and staring, almost unseeing, mixing dream world and waking world as his kind were want to do, fair hands folded across his chest. Gimli sat alert, his axes at the ready, listening, but for now the only sounds aside from the soft crackle-pop of the fire was the rustling of leaves all around.

As the night wore on, suddenly there appeared a cloaked man, face hidden by the wide brin of his hat. Gimli started, but was unable to utter a word straight away. His stirring, though, roused the others as well as any words might, and Aragorn and Legolas both sat up to stare at the newcomer. The ranger rose to his feet and invited the stranger to warm himself by the fire, but the man disappeared without a trace beneath the moonless sky as soon as Aragorn had taken a step. It was at this point that Legolas cried out at the departure of their mounts, who had pulled themselves free and had perhaps gone the same way as the strange visitor, for they, too, were out of sight. The only sign of the horses was a distant whinnying from far off, and the three stood troubled before this new stroke of foul luck.

The passing of the night was slow, after that -- they had decided it must have been the work of Saruman and there was nothing to be done for it at the moment. Gimli was relieved of his watch by Aragorn, and the dwarf headed readily to find sleep, though his hands never left his axe. Legolas resumed his place on the ground and rested open-eyed and motionless.

The old man did not reappear during Aragorn's watch, and his only company was the wind and the branches that shifted and whispered, singing softly behind him. He wondered, though, how much of the noise was caused by the breeze. The fire burned steadily, and while he watched the blue and orange flames lick at the dry wood, he bent his knees and rested an elbow atop one of them, his fingers entwined in his dark hair thoughtfully. His line of sight drifted, moving toward Legolas's prone form, and though he was unsure how long his gaze remained there he felt suddenly as one who was falling. Having to drop both arms to his sides, he placed his palms flat on the ground to steady himself. He felt dizzy, and cursed silently under his breath.

Reaching out then, and unsheathing Andúril, Aragorn withdrew also the whetstone from a buckled pocket on the scabbard. He held the sword pointing straight out from him and watched the fire trail bright lines over the gleaming metal, the light tracing in sharp arcs in an inconstant dance over the blade. He began to sharpen it slowly, so as to not make too much noise. His insides felt unsettled, as if they shifted in anticipation of something he could not yet fathom. It was not the hunt for their hobbit friends, and it was not the parting of Frodo in the days before. It was not the loss of any of the Fellowship, and it was not, for once, the path that fate seemed it would have him walk. He chanced a glance once again at the elf, and gritted his teeth before returning his attention to his watch, and to the task he had set himself to while away the time.

The wind picked up briskly, carrying with it a sharper bite and threatening the fire. The ranger tossed a few more pieces of wood into the thirsty flames and watched the sparks that wound themselves upward in lazy loops on the heated air. For the time the fire flared up, much more of the area was visible around him. Though the shadows shifted with the movement of the flames, giving things a sense of false motion, he could see Legolas had woken, and was watching him with a look that might send him bursting into flames, or freeze the bones within his flesh -- he could not decide. Aragorn shifted under the weight of the stare, and, and he placed his sword slowly back into the scabbard. Replacing the whetstone as well, glad for an excuse to keep his hands busy, he exhaled heavily and finally let his weapon fall to the ground beside him. "My watch is over," he said, a question though it was phrased as a statement.

The elf stood and took a few steps toward the fire. Seating himself across from the ranger, he did not break eye contact just yet -- at least, he was still focusing on Aragorn's eyes even if the ranger was avoiding his. If the ranger felt he could look at him in such away but not hold his ground when it was returned in kind, so be it. Above them the clouds began to blow away, trailing into ever thinning wisps and allowing a few stars to peek through in front of a field of black. "No," Legolas said smoothly, the firelight shimmering over his hair in much the same manner as it had danced over Aragorn's blade. "You are quite contemplative, my friend," he added softening his eyes though there was a light in their depths that remained sharp and unexplained. "And I do not believe your mind wanders to any paths we have so far taken, nor to any we might take in days to follow." Letting his forearms rest on the knees of his folded legs, he continued, "I know you will try to convince me otherwise."

Aragorn straightened, feeling the bark press uncomfortably into his spine as he leaned against the tree. He drew his knees up a bit higher, crossing his arms over them to hide the bottom half of his face as he chewed a lip. "Then I will not," he conceded, and his brow crinkled in unspoken confusion. "Though did you not say --"

"I said I would not again request that you reveal your reasons for silence, Estel," the elf interrupted, yet he made even this ill mannered move seem gracious. "But that is not my intent this night. I wish to know your reason for watching me so." His request was rather brazen and artless, and it threw Aragorn off more than a little. He was not used to such forthcoming from his elvish friend.

"I --" The ranger found himself unable to respond, and he was forced to consciously stop his jaw from working in silence. He returned his hand to his hair, and his eyes hardened as he found a suitable rock toward which to direct his frustration. Realisation was slowly dawning on him, day by day, but that brought understanding no closer to his grasp. For this moment, he decided to be as truthful as his mind might allow. "I find myself wandering much, of late," the man said after a long stretch of silence. "I would ask your forgiveness; you must think me less capable of the wit and provision required for such a journey as ours."

The corners of Legolas's mouth turned down slightly. "I do not think you unfit," he replied, remaining still across from his companion. "These days have set all our minds to trouble, immersing us in replaying the past or attempting to gauge the future. I do not find your preoccupations to be keeping you from the task, as without you we certainly would not have come this far, and still retain enough hope within our hearts." He finally released Aragorn from his gaze, but did not completely avert his eyes.

The man could do naught but nod, relaxing his arms enough to let his hands come to rest on his knees. The jewel in his ring glittered harshly in the shifting light, and he thought he could see it reflected in the elf's eyes.

"It was your eyes I saw last night behind the flames, shining as something, some_one_, I could not know, and so at first thought them belonging to some strange beast or demon behind the reins of Sauron." Legolas had restored his gaze to Aragorn's eyes now, waiting for the man to look up.

Aragorn tensed, every muscle seeming to quiver in protest as his body went rigid. His chin snapped up, and he aimed a darkened look toward the elf with eyes that suddenly appeared ragged and red-rimmed. But his glance faltered once burnished grey eyes locked with icy blue. For a moment, his look became haunted, and he could not bear for it to show so he turned away again. Legolas had to say no more than this; it was clear it explained much to the elf. It came to him that his friend had complained not at all of feeling watched since that night, and for good reason. Aragorn had set himself the purpose of avoiding even looking at his friend once it had become a forethought for them all. He was certain that the strange occurrences and ill fortune in these lands did much to add to these experiences a sort of exacerbation, and it did much to lend reason to the extremity to which Legolas had reacted the previous eve. In truth, the ranger had been sitting quietly, considering the darker places that had made small homes in his soul when he realised that having his friend near somehow made them better, and yet worse all at once. He had been regarding the elf through the flames when Legolas had finally turned and called out.

His silence seemed to be taken as an affirmation, as a voice at last reached his ears that he could hear above his rushing blood. "It is my watch, now. You should rest." So he offered no more words, merely stood and moved to the side where he had previously unfurled his bedroll, and lay down once again. He turned his back to the fire and he lowered himself to the ground, and behind him he was sure he heard Legolas's voice very quietly in the dark.

"Ú-moe edaved."

As the ranger had taken his shift on watch to sharpen his weapon, Legolas set about using his own time alone to fletch some new arrows. This was something he could do in his sleep, but he found himself taking longer than usual and putting an aggravated force behind each of his actions. When he had damaged a third feather with a violent motion, he sighed heavily and thought it wise to put it off, at least until he had cleared his head. As he took Aragorn's place in front of the tree, he leaned back and suddenly felt that ever present knot in his stomach twitch. He could not, however, tell if it was tightening or loosening, such was the ambiguity of the feeling. So he did his best to ignore it. Legolas set his eyes and ears to the lookout, and spent the rest of the night in stillness, letting the fire burn itself out.

The pale wash of dawn greeted them with a bitterness that left even the green of Rohan feeling barren. Aragorn was awake when Legolas finally stood, and the elf was quite certain his friend had not slept since their talk during the night. Sparing Gimli a kick this dawn, Legolas instead placed a hand on the dwarf's shoulder and shook him lightly; he was feeling overly gentle this morning, even if it was only because he felt quite distant. This method of rousing earned the elf a curious look from Gimli, but he was not questioned further, and was rather glad for it. Instead they quietly set about fixing a small breakfast with their remaining supplies. It was not as rejuvenating as lembas, but it was a welcome difference, and still allowed their stomachs to feel full and their hunger to be sated in a more rewarding fashion.

They deliberated on the loss of their horses, and the elf thought it was not the fault of the cloaked man the night before, even if that had been Saruman. The animals had sounded as if they had not run in terror, rather in joy, as if they were off to a reunion with an old friend. There was still nothing to be done about it, however, and they accepted that they would return to proceeding on foot, unless the beasts returned of their own accord. They would have to search for them later, as they had left an oath with Éomer to return them at the outcome, no matter what it might be, of their quest.

Gimli was as silent as the others as the sun rose without offering much warmth to the land. He appeared quite aware of the strain that had tightened further over the course of his companions' watches, and he wished not to disturb anything that might lay between them. Instead of attempting conversation, he resigned himself to be contented lending what assistance he could in the search for more signs of the hobbits.

Aragorn began at their encampment, starting to circle outward from the dead fire and making his way back in the direction of the location that had seen the battle of Orcs and men. As the day began to progress, none gave voice to the fears they all shared that the bodies of their small friends lay mixed forever in the pile of charred remains. The higher the sun rose, the slower they began to move, as if fighting something within themselves that arrested the movement of their limbs and turned their minds again and again to the rubble that had still not ceased smoking. A yolk rested heavy over their hearts as the ranger drew nearer the knoll of the battle, and Legolas let himself lag behind to search other areas. He was certain Aragorn must have heard the words tumble from his lips while the stars had still shone in the sky, as he had seemingly been powerless to stop them. It angered him, that sudden inability to keep himself in check, and, more than that, he was furious that he could not explain it, even to himself. Presently, he paused, standing to his full height and moving one graceful hand to settle atop the handle of the white knife in his belt, and let the other come to rest over his abdomen, fingers listing over the material of his soft over tunic.

Before he had much opportunity to delve into his own thoughts, his introspection was cut short as a shout came from the distance; Aragorn was bidding his friends to join him at his side. Without hesitation his nimble feet carried him over the hill, Gimli's path meeting with his own along the way. As they crested a small rise they saw the ranger examining closely a spot of well worn ground. He had discovered something. It was not long before traces of a hobbit were found; it must have been one of the halflings, for despite the muddled footprints there were, beside a severed rope and a knife that must have cut it, crumbs of waybread. Only a hobbit would have paused in the midst of a chaotic battle for a bite to eat. The evidence suggested at least one had escaped, and they followed the trail toward the brink of Fangorn Forest, seeing where it disappeared beyond the trees. There was little to discuss; there was great need to follow, and follow they would.

It was at once easier and more difficult to track within the darkening confines of the wood, but Aragorn kept the trail as they wound around trunk and under limb and over rock and branch. The air was thick and the bark of the trees a murky charcoal with strange patterns of lighter moss the grew reminiscent of curling smoke. Legolas was sure the outer edges of the forest were of no danger to the party, though the trees still shook fretfully with anger and sent hisses back and forth above the heads of the company. Although it had been their intent to avoid the deeper places of these woods, they had no choice but to follow each sign that was unearthed as it lay a path ever inward, and finally to a hill covered in strange tracks.

From this hill, atop a great piece of stone they again caught sight of the old man in a tattered grey cloak and hat moving amongst the foliage below. Gimli gave great urging for Legolas to dispatch the man before he could approach, but Aragorn countered his words. Of a sudden, the stranger approached with great steps toward the hill, and climbed it to look up at them from the base of the rock. The three attempted to draw their weapons but found after doing so they were unable to hold onto them. It was with great despair Legolas watched his bow and arrow clatter to the ground as his arms willed themselves to his sides. With mighty leaps the man scaled the stone and stood before them, speaking as if he knew their names yet he did not give his own. When Gimli discovered he could again lift his axe, the dwarf prepared to strike the old man, and as the man and elf retrieved their weapons, once again they lost control of them. Gimli dropped his axe, Aragorn's sword burned in his hands and fell to the ground, and as the man cast aside his grey cloak to reveal shining white robes, Legolas at last shot an arrow high into the tree tops before crying out, "Mithrandir! Mithrandir!"

It was Gandalf.

The three hunters were awestruck, unable to believe their dear friend had come back to them. Legolas felt his heart swell and Gimli could barely contain himself. The reunited group set to exchanging tales, and the company marvelled at the wizard's story of his battle with the ancient Balrog. The wizard, in turn, mourned the valiant loss of Boromir at the Falls of Rauros. But all of their hearts were lightened further by the news that Merry and Pippin were safe in the care of old Treebeard, upon whose hill they now stood. With this good news, and the knowledge that the fate of Frodo and the ring was out of their hands, they decided with haste to turn to Rohan, and to give aid to the ailing King Théoden.

The group, now numbering four, eagerly trekked back though the paths of Fangorn, though none quite so eagerly as Gimli. Once they reached the plains of the Wold, Gandalf summoned a great white horse, Shadowfax, to the astonishment of the others. Perhaps the only thing more surprising than Gandalf's alliance with this great steed of the Mearas was that their missing horses came running back at the heals of the white stallion.

It could not be helped that the faces of the elf, dwarf, and man were all split with mirroring smiles. Their friends were safe, Gandalf had returned, and the horses had not been lost to them. Forgetting himself in the joyous moment, Legolas clapped a hand on Aragorn's shoulder and turned toward him, wanting, without giving it thought, to share his happiness. The ranger instantly looked back, but as their eyes locked, both smiles faded ever so slowly; their gaze held fast for a moment, though it appeared as though lightning might dash between them so charged did the glare become. The elf drew his hand back almost as if he had been burned, and, letting his gaze linger only a second longer than was appropriate, he turned away swiftly and stepped to Arod's side. Gimli was too busy speaking cheerily with Gandalf to take notice of the exchange that took place behind him.

As Legolas swung himself adeptly onto the horse's back, he beckoned his shorter friend it was time to get going. Hasufel came to Aragorn at the ranger's call, and he climbed into the saddle, spinning the steel grey horse around to face Gandalf, who was in the midst of swinging himself onto the back of Shadowfax. The elf and man avoided each other's eye and set their concentration to the task at hand with no little ease.

Aragorn's hands sweat lightly on the reins and he clenched his jaw. Legolas felt his hands slip just a small amount over the strands of thick mane he held in one hand. But such fortunes gave them renewed strength, and with hearts lighter than they could recall, they prepared to make off with speed toward Edoras and the halls of Meduseld.

* * *

**Ú-moe edaved.** -- 'There is nothing to forgive.'


	4. Chapter Four

**Author's Notes:**

Characters and the world of Arda copyright Tolkien and all that, no money being made, utmost respect for his works. 

Major assumptions in this chapter:  
  
-- there is a guest hall near Meduseld for visitors (ie: political/important) to Rohan  
-- it took enough time to muster forces that before the group were allowed to choose mail and armour that they might have been provided chambers for a short rest after Wormtongue's departure. 

Many a thanks for the reviews, I do appreciate the feedback very much! :) 

Warnings: Slash. Yes, this chapter is taking another step in that direction. For anyone opposed to this, firstly you don't have to read it (eventually I will be inspired to do a non-slash story, if I can trust myself to come up with a decent plot device), but secondly, remember this is intended to stick as close to book canon as possible, which provides a certain limitation anyway (something to think about). Also, there is a very brief moment of implied Aragorn/Arwen included as well. 

**Chapter 4**

It had been but a few short hours since the group had taken leave from the Golden Hall. Upon their arrival to Meduseld, Gandalf had carefully freed Théoden from the mist that had overthrown his mind beneath the Shadow and veiled his eyes to the truth. The king had seemed to wake from a long dream, and it was not long before the citizens of Rohan were rejoicing, the happy din rising from the streets below and filtering into the court. With more than a little haste they had submerged themselves in talks of the war that seethed on the edge of everyone's vision: of the probable moves of Mordor and Isengard, and of the Orcs now rampaging through the hills of the Riddermark. At length Théoden had sent for the collection of Edoras's forces with orders that every Rohirrim should be called to the ready with all speed. 

Gandalf unveiled the servant Grima as the snake he had become, uncoiling words over the king's mind and taking hold of it, pushing it into the murky water and holding it beneath the surface in hopes of allowing the Shadow to more easily engulf and besiege the kingdom. Théoden barely held his wrath at the revelations of leechcraft he had suffered at the hands of his once trusted servant. However, after some deliberation, Wormtongue's life had been spared, and he had been granted a horse despite the reservations of many. He was also given a choice: to run and never look back, or to stand and fight alongside his ruler and his people. But the king's former advisor had chosen to flee, and in leaving spat violently at his lord's feet. 

Preparations were in their final stages. The women and children would be readying for the protection of Dunharrow, and the men were already collecting to ride to Helm's Deep in the very north of the White Mountains. A small feast had been conjured expeditiously to celebrate the recovery of Rohan's leader, and Aragorn and his friends had been offered places in the king's guest hall to take what respite they may find following their mighty journey. It would do little good to have them suffering under the yolk of exhaustion in the shadow of the trying days ahead. 

Théoden called for them each to be taken to chambers within the guest halls, though Gandalf declined, wishing instead to keep counsel with the king. The elf, dwarf and ranger gladly removed themselves from the court and made their way outside the walls to the Hall's stone steps, and from there they headed down the dusty path that led to their offered accommodations. They walked in silence, save for the sound of their boots connecting with stone and the soft creak of the well worn leather of their gear. Gimli had been, as he so often was when faced with the opportunity, quite glad for a chance to get some rest, and he eagerly took the first room the court's attendant led them past. As they parted, Legolas was almost certain he already heard a steady rumbling filtering through the thick wood of the door. With a chuckle, the elf disappeared into his chosen chamber, as he had deemed the chance to at least was and change desirable. 

The ranger, too, thought it wise to make the best use of this time to acquire some uninterrupted sleep after so many nights going without, even if it was to be found only in a short span of hours. Aragorn laid his things on a narrow table without haste. His hands lingered over the leather of his belt as he traced the smooth surface to where it intersected the scabbard. He pulled his hands away, but not his eyes, which remained pinioned upon his weapon with heavy lids. The flicker of candle light bouncing shadows off the uneven stone caught his attention, and he blinked slowly before backing up and turning toward the bed. He pinched the bridge of his nose with a grimace, and rubbed lightly at the inner corners of his eyes. With a heavy sigh he fell onto the mattress, not even bothering to remove his boots. But he discovered his slumber was fitful, for the brief moments it came at all, and he felt more than trapped by the high walls around him and the dark, empty corners of the room. It was not long before he accepted defeat, and gathered his things to him, intent upon returning to Meduseld and the anticipation of war that was surely so palpable it seemed ready to set the timber alight. 

Aragorn's hand pulled closed the door to the room so graciously lent him, fingertips tracing over the cool metal of the latch before he drew himself up to his full height and turned to face the stone walls of the corridor. Dark tapestries rich in colour and texture decorated the passageway, each depicting the horses for which Rohan was renown; some appeared in battle and some within the strong but delicate imagery of the shields of the Lords. Directly across the hall towered another door of solid oak and dark brass, a mirror of the closed archway that led to his own chambers. Both had one torch burning boldly on each side, the four fires challenging the moonlight that filtered in through the unshuttered window. The ranger emitted a soft sigh through his nose as he stepped lightly over the flagstone and turned towards the night. Beyond the open stone he caught a glimpse of the moon hanging solitary in the pale sky, tendrils of cloud caressing it as if they whispered secrets only the night could know. The stars had not yet shown themselves, but the heavens above the hills of the city already wore a dark cloak which spun ever deeper as he drew his weapon from its sheath and held it still before him. 

With a frown, he let the sword of Elendil, and all it entailed, slice the invading moonlight, the clean metal inflaming it into a fierce battle with the burnished gold that cascaded over his shoulders from the sconces at his back. As the man's eyes swept over the blade's edge, the clink of a door hinge came to his ear. It was but a brief moment his muscles tensed as he strained to hear the anticipated flutter of footsteps. None came. He dared not wait another instant and turned quickly, lifting his sword as his shoulders twisted; he was only partly surprised to hear the collision of metal on metal echo back down the hall with sharp precision before it faded into the stone. 

Andúril had come to rest against the blade of a white elven knife, and as the rest of Aragorn's body caught up with his sword only an second later, he came face to face with Legolas. Neither moved to drop their weapon, rather stood and listened to the dying sound of clashing steel and carefully locking gazes. The corners of the elf's mouth were subtly upturned in a strange smile, and his expression quickly earned him narrowed eyes and a creased brow from the man standing opposite him. "You seem easily troubled tonight, mellon nîn," Legolas said quietly, his eyes squinting ever so slightly as the words slipped past his lips, seeming as if they sought to look beyond the shadows that partially shielded his friend's face. 

Without making any motion to draw back, Aragorn slowly allowed himself a deep breath. "I would do better not forget you can move as a ghost when you wish," he replied, his excuse deliberate in its deficiency, and the elf thought there lay beneath the statement a hint of accusation. The man tilted his head to the side as he spoke, one edge of his mouth lifting upward as a distant light flickered faintly in the depths of his eyes; whether it was something the remained unspoken, or merely a retelling of the torchlight, Legolas found it suddenly difficult to discern. With an abrupt motion the ranger moved his sword in a tight circle, dislodging it from the long knife, and brought his second hand alongside the first on its handle. He was not entirely taken aback when the elf did not retreat but instead recovered and brought his weapon down again, forcing Aragorn to parry with a sideways twist of his sword. There was a brief pause during which the man would have sworn on the Valar the elf smiled, and then blades were flying: blistering combinations of blocks, parries and thrusts, neither willing to give, or take, quarter. 

Certainly the clatter would soon draw someone's attention, Aragorn thought, though his focus did not drift or wane. Instead, he clenched his teeth and grunted as he put a new force behind his attack. This time he was surprised to find the elf respond in kind, and he growled faintly as the unexpected contest of skill began to edge across the line of a friendly sparring match. Sweat did more than bead on his brow, falling now in small rivulets over the angles of his face and matting his hair in dark curls around his ears and the base of his neck. Legolas was not subject to quite the same evidence of effort and was sweating only lightly, but the ranger could tell the elf was straining as much as he. Steel flashed sharply in the light, and the torches seemed to flare more brightly as the edges of the tapestries shifted in the wind of conflict. Finally, Legolas brought his knife straight down from above his head and Aragorn caught it on the cross guard of his sword. There the din calmed, and the sound dimmed and faded, but in their ears remained a steady ringing. The man's shoulders were angled at the elf's chest, their arms nearly touching and their eyes shining brightly. 

With a movement that was certain to do justice to his elvish upbringing, Aragorn lashed out with a leg, hooking it behind one of Legolas's and pulling it back swiftly. The elf was clearly caught off guard by this and lost his balance. Before he allowed himself the luxury of contemplating this move, as Legolas fell he was able to swing his other leg out with enough force to knock the ranger's supporting limb out from under him. The elf hit the ground first, his back crashing into the stone nearly hard enough to knock the wind from his body as his head cracked smartly against the smooth slate of the floor. A moment later he felt a weight collide with him from above, hard enough to finish the job of robbing his lungs of air, and he fought a gasp. Legolas blinked hard, trying to chase from his vision the stars that must have rushed in from the night, and when he opened his eyes, Aragorn was staring down at him, inches above his face, tendrils of dark hair hanging down to brush his cheeks with no more force than a whisper of air. He could feel the man's breath coming rapidly over his lips, and he swallowed thickly as he tried to calm a gasping that rose up in his breast. The elf's stomach twinged, causing his eyes to widen, but he caught in his throat the sound that tried to escape him and his gaze sharpened. Without warning Legolas collected himself and twisted his legs just enough to lock around the other's, mustering enough force from his prone position to flip Aragorn over. His hands fell to either side of the man's head as he reversed their positions, and he couldn't help but smirk at the shock apparent on the face so close to his. 

Now pale hair rained down from above to fall on darker skinned cheeks, and Legolas glared down at his friend, his lingering gaze smouldering cobalt. Just as the elf was about to push himself up, Aragorn's closed fist struck him squarely in the ribs. With a jolted expression of shock for being caught off guard twice in such a short span of time, Legolas made to stand with one hand cradling his side, and the ranger struggled to his feet once he was unhindered by the other's weight. As soon as they were both upright once again, the elf pulled back one arm, and when it came forward again it drove his knuckles right into Aragorn's eye. With that, he bent to pick up his knife and returned the blade to its place on his belt before stalking off down the hall, leaving the man staring after him. 

When the elf reached the juncture of corridors, one arm still held tenderly around his injured ribs, he nearly ran straight into Gimli. "I thought you saw everything coming!" the dwarf said gruffly and not with a little frustration as he was forced to recover with a quick backward step. He eyed Legolas with exasperation, preparing for whatever remark the elf might throw his way, but none came. His expression reformed slowly, and looked to his friend now from beneath an arched brow, seeing the elf's condition for the first time. 

Legolas had narrowly avoided trampling the dwarf in his hasty escape, stopping short just before he bowled into him, but he did not remain where he was for long. At the dwarf's comment, he narrowed his eyes and resumed walking with giant strides, disappearing quickly around the corner with steps that echoed behind him long after he had gone. Gimli expressed his astonishment with round eyes for a moment as he watched the elf exit the hall, but his face quickly melted into an annoyed frown as he shot a dark look down the corridor in Aragorn's direction. The man was still standing where he had been when Legolas had punched him in the face, his fingers palpating the tender flesh above his cheekbone and below his eyebrow. Removing his fingers from his head, he glanced down to see a small amount of blood on the tips of them, which he rubbed slowly between thumb and forefingers. With a quiet curse he used his sleeve to wipe what he could away, as it was already beginning to dry. Certainly that would never go unnoticed. 

"Oh, that's it!" came a roar from the dwarf's end of the hall. Indeed, Gimli was stalking down the walkway toward the ranger, axe in hand and not carried lightly. Aragorn would have sworn he saw the torches shrink beneath the sound, flames retreating into the sconces the light dimmed momentarily. "I don't claim ta know what's goin' on b'tween tha two o' you, but if anyone's goin' ta be beatin' the life outta anyone else, it's going ta be _me_ beating it outta you both!" As if to emphasise his point, he hoisted the axe in one hand and glared with eyes reminiscent of hard coals. "Now what was that lit'l display all about?" Aragorn blinked a few times and looked down at the dwarf before bending to pick up his sword. He sheathed his weapon, but kept his hand on the pommel as he stood straight again. 

With an exasperated breath the man said shortly, "Take it up with him, he started it," before stepping around the dwarf and beating a trail along the same path Legolas had taken on his way out. He did not stop to consider that his statement was not, perhaps, entirely true but was also incredibly puerile, and instead forced his mind to jump ahead to their imminent departure. There were things that needed doing before they left, and he was not about to let them fall to the back of his mind. In only a few long strides he had reached the meeting of corridors and turned down the one that led out of the guest hall. 

"He -- Oh, that's rich!" came the thundering reply, but there was nothing else Gimli could say once Aragorn had vanished, gone the same way as the elf, and he placed the butt of his axe handle on the ground thoughtfully. This was just what they needed, to have the man and elf fighting like spoiled children on the eve of a great war. Never had he seen a row last so long between the two. In fact, he was sure that aside from a few short disagreements, his friends had never found themselves at such odds before. He, however, was not one to dwell on such things without reason, and while he fully intended to follow through with his threat of a thorough pummeling should this continue much longer, for now he was interested only in the food and drink that awaited him in the Golden Hall. With a greatly heaved sigh, he shook his head to no one and set his feet to follow after his friends. 

The four companions reunited in their seats at the king's board. The food was already awaiting them and they quickly joined in, eating and drinking what they were able stomach well enough before they were to ride out once more. Aragorn and Legolas both faced the meal with little conversation, though the elf seemed more willing to partake in banter with the surrounding crowd than the man. Gandalf laid upon Aragorn a sharp eye at one point, but he said nothing and the ranger offered no words of his own. The wizard had noticed his new injury, and Aragorn absently lifted a hand to touch the split flesh before he returned to his meal. He did little more than stir the food on his plate into something less recognisable, the taut feeling that plagued his midsection was unyielding, and it ruined his appetite. He glanced over in Legolas's direction, but it appeared the elf was not having the same ill fortune as he in partaking of the meal catered them. He grumbled in frustration, or envy, he did not know, and returned his eyes to the plate before him as he resumed stabbing at the food, quite a bit more heavily than before. 

Upon finishing, Théoden wished to impart to each of them a gift, in thanks for their presence and their aid. Gandalf spoke of his growing bond with the great stallion Shadowfax, and the king gladly granted the wizard the greatest horse in his kingdom. For the rest of them he offered the choice of anything that lay within the armoury. They finally came arrayed in the raiment of the Rohirrim, though Gimli had no need for mail, as none could match what already covered him, made in the depths of the mountains by his own people. At the gate, the dwarf made reparations with the king's sister-son Éomer before the host of a thousand strong men set off into the distance, leaving Éowyn, sister-daughter of Théoden standing alone in sparkling armour and in charge of a still, empty hall. 

The sun began to fail as they rode deeper into the plain, falling slowly behind the hill and setting ablaze the gold fields that lay before them. Night crept closer, chasing the burnished pinks and blues finally from the sky and carrying on its tail a host of stars that sparkled lightly above them. The men could oft hear Legolas singing as he travelled along with the head of the company, and they rode for long hours before finally making camp in the wake of deepening darkness. They were not but halfway to their destination, and the wind was too warm for the time of year, a foreboding of what force rode strongly behind them, somewhere they could not yet see. They lit no fires in their uncertainty, and kept a strong watch. 

It was not long after the ranks broke and many of the Rohan riders had set up simple white tents in tidy rows that Legolas found himself faced with the rather unsightly wrath of the dwarf. Gimli had come to him with a sour expression and an attempt at intimidating stature just as the last light was finally slipping away behind the swarm of distant mountains. "A fine hit," the dwarf said, his voice low but rumbling nonetheless. "Now, laddie, the point of concern is, what do you intend to do about it?" 

Though behind his friend's apparent anger he could see a driving force of great concern, Legolas was faintly surprised at the softness of the dwarf's words given Gimli's contradictory appearance. His brow creased lightly as he observed his short friend, but he did not offer explanation: whether or not it was needed, he was not sure. 

"Nay, I know not what happened," Gimli said preemptively, answering the question that was brimming in the elf's eyes and made clear by his silent voice. "But," he added with a strange gleam in his expression, "I know quite enough. An' if you two don't settle it, this row o' yourn, I'm going to hav' ta do it for ya." He offered a smile, at the same time both impish and sad, as he clapped Legolas heavily on the arm. Without another word to Legolas, he turns on his heel and walked away, muttering something about youngsters and idiocy. 

The elf did not watch him leave, but crossed his arms where he stood and looked up to the sky. He absently rubbed a hand over the lower ribs on his left side. Aragorn might have walked away before it began, but then, so might he have done the same. The hand touching his ribs moved over his stomach and flattened there; it was almost as if he could feel the knot within his gut as a physical thing and it quivered at the memory of his injury's circumstances. His eyes shot daggers into the darkness, as if there he could find the cause of all this and slay it once and for all. It must lay out there, somewhere, the same thing that heated the wind and drove their enemies forth. It was the same will that preoccupied his mind and altered his senses. Yet at the same time he wished to destroy it, he dared not consider giving up this feeling though he might try to disconnect himself from it. The warm breeze wandered over his face and he flushed at the remembrance of Aragorn's hair tracing the contours of his cheeks. Valar deliver him, he thought as he closed his eyes -- these were strange fates, and he dared not allow them to become any stranger. 

Aragorn had been purposeful in his choice of place to settle for the night. He sat on the edge of the encampment, not separate but none to close, either, to the rows of tents behind him that were now the only things to stand out past a few feet. His gaze was directed westward along the peaks of the White Mountains that now were invisible to him, his arms draped loosely around bent knees. They should reach their destination sometime late on the morrow, and he expected they would have little leeway between their arrival and the coming of what forces drew closer from the darkness to the northwest, or the storm laden sky that growled silently in the east. Grinding his teeth lightly, the man cast his gaze downward and pressed one thumb heavily into the palm of the opposite hand. The night felt as a heavy blanket over the eyes despite the stars that broke though the black shield stretching overhead. He was glad for it, whatever else he thought, as he wanted to be alone, and it would make him more difficult to find among the small army behind him. Certainly, save by pure chance, Gimli would never come across him; though the dwarf might boast the sight of a hawk, in truth his short friend often mistook shapes in broad daylight, and missed some things altogether. It was probably something to so with the idea of dwelling beneath the ground, but Aragorn could not say for sure. 

The wind had grown stronger and came often in short bursts that tore at clothing and felt harsh against the skin. It was one of these gusts that Aragorn felt against his face that reminded him of his encounter with Legolas earlier that day. The air brushed over the cut on his cheek, and he lifted a hand to bring his fingers to the near fresh wound, his eyes thoughtful behind closed lids. When he made contact with warm skin that was not his, the man's eyes flashed open again and he froze. He felt fingers beneath his -- what he had felt was not the wind after all but someone's hand tracing the small gash below his eye. He moved his head back to break the contact as his eyes sought the source of the fingers that lightly closed around his. 

"Your words come back to haunt you," came a soft voice, melodic even in its subdued tones, and Aragorn quickly focused on Legolas. It seemed the elf had purposely approached him without a sound, like a ghost, and Aragorn could not help but exhale small breath of a laugh before his throat tightened and he furrowed his brow, his expression becoming strained. Legolas lowered the ranger's hand and released it, placing it on the man's knee before letting his own arm rest on his leg where he stooped next to his friend. "I am sorry for the injury," the elf said quietly, his eyes intently searching the ranger's face for a long moment, lingering at last on the cut before slipping back up to the stormy grey eyes. 

Aragorn swallowed, and managed a simple "Hmph." The corners of his mouth twitched shallowly in the direction of a grimace, but a moment later his face was once again masked. "I concede I did aught to earn it," he added slowly, a long time later, and not without letting his eyes rove to the elf's side. "And here I believe I might offer the same words of apology, but to your ribs instead." He lifted his chin along the same path as his eyes. 

The elf laughed softly, though where it should be a musical sound it seemed strained, and shook his head. "My side pains me no longer, whatever damage was done is healed, or nearly so," he countered. His expression was pensive, but retained the traces of that distant smile. 

"I might offer more, but you should not forget you began it," Aragorn added with a gesture of his hand, giving Legolas a sidelong glance from beneath unruly hair and then looking back out into the night uneasily. He allowed the heel of one boot to dig into the soft earth. 

"Are you claiming I fight dirty?" The elf asked ineloquently, attempting a sound of mock offence as he watched the earth gather in a small, semi-circular pile around the ranger's foot. 

Aragorn did naught but shake his head before letting the silence stretch itself near to the breaking point, even the sounds of the wild seeming to pause. "You fight well," came his clumsy reply at last, but he did nothing to elaborate and there was no answer from the other in the dark. For a long time, in fact, there was nothing, and the sounds of the night slowly began to return. Aragorn did not allow himself to look up, thinking at last his friend must have left him in the same silence with which he had arrived. He heard not even the breath that had just been falling so closely he could feel it against his cheek if he tried hard enough. His shoulders sagged under an invisible weight, but as he drew a ragged breath he felt the tips of two fingers trace again over the ruined trail of dried blood on his cheekbone, before the sound of footsteps retreated into the night. 

Tangling both hands into his hair, Aragorn stared at the ground beneath him for a long time, not truly seeing it in the dark, but knowing it was there, nonetheless. Knowing he would not suddenly disappear into some void below or find himself unable to stand. It was constant, and in this way somehow comforting. No matter the outcome, it would still be here in some form or another, and while this aided not the rifts that were ever shifting in his soul, it served to calm him in light of the uncertainties, of the things on which he could not depend nor set his heart. Friendship, love -- it made him sick to his stomach to think of losing those dearest to him. And as the first face that entered his mind was that of the elf that had just left his side, he squeezed his eyes shut and fisted his fingers around large tresses of hair, but the small pains did nothing to clear his mind. Others he saw, too, amongst them being Gandalf, Gimli, the hobbits, and of course Arwen. 

Arwen. Surely it was this tainted land that did not bring her to the forefront of his mind, and instead sought to stir within him the unknown, delving into his most hidden places and drawing out whatever fear lay within them and feeding readily on each one. It was this that caused his mind to wander and his eyes as well. It must be this. His breath hitched, and it was a long time before he looked up. When he at last lifted his gaze, the dawn had begun to paint the landscape with an angry hand, seeming to engulf the peaks of the mountains in the distance in red flame. His eyes immediately followed the path Legolas had taken upon leaving him last night, but he did not see anyone but the few alert Rohirrim. He did not know, either, what he expected to see, but he did not have time to dwell upon it, for the horns sounded and the camp came to life. Within an hour they were again on the move, riding on through the fiery dawn towards Helm's Deep. 


	5. Chapter Five

**Author's Notes:**

Characters and the world of Arda copyright Tolkien and all that, no money being made, utmost respect for his works.

In this chapter, because it fits so well and doesn't exactly throw off book canon (and I couldn't resist), I am borrowing a scene from the movieverse (rewriting only a mention of its occurrence and some actions taken, but imagining something like it happened).

Again, thanks for the reviews, I always appreciate them even if they are critical (as long as they contain something helpful and supportive -- this is my _first_ fic, as well as the first thing I've written in over ten years). Your comments keep my motivation to continue intact, so thanks to those who have done so thus far. Please review if you have the time. :)

**Konjurer**: Thanks for the comments, I am glad I managed to convey much of what I had intended. I worry there is a lot of reading between the lines required in this story, and I'm not sure how much I should explain away and how much I should leave to inference and examination. But you reassure me enough to think I am doing a passable job ;)

Response to another reviewer can be found at the end. It contains explanation that some may not want to read so I placed it down there. Also, some elvish translation is at the bottom of the page.

Warnings: Increasing slashy overtones, implied Aragorn/Arwen, etc etc.

**Chapter 5**

Onward they rode, the sun circling all too quickly overhead. A rider from the scattered Westfold's forces had come out to meet them with news of the remaining warriors. It was near this same time that Gandalf had taken leave for, in his words, a swift errand, though the Rohirrim held little store that he would return to their aid. Shadowfax carried the white wizard like pale silver on the wind out of sight and into the darkness, and the party rode ever deeper into the claws of the northernmost White Mountains without him. As the wavering veil of night began to draw across them from the east, their path turned abruptly southward. In the last misty blue shimmering of the evening, the great bulk of the Thrihyrne towered above them, its silhouette as dark its bottomless promise of safety beyond. Helm's Deep was within their reach, and they went now to the aid of whatever people awaited them within its walls.

News had come of wolf riders loose in the surrounding valleys, but their need drove them onward. Of Orcs, too, they heard, but any bands they came across swiftly scattered and departed, leaving the members of the company chasing shadows. Up and up the trail finally carried them, and though the air was still warm it did not hold the same vague oppression of the valley wind; the riders seemed to exhale a long held breath at once. Behind them in the canyons and slopes they had not long left, they could see torches, small flames flickering in the distance that melted into larger, leaping fires that tore through the darkness. The enemy was behind them, and they were burning and despoiling everything in their path as they marched determinedly on in the wake of the men of Rohan.

At last they reached the Hornburg, dismounting and sending their horses far into the heights of the Deep before beginning to ready what forces were available. They had perhaps a thousand men ready to fight, but many of these had seen too many years, or were young sons in the company of their fathers. Éomer did not hold much confidence in the timely arrival of Erkenbrand and the Westfold's remaining Rohirrim, at least those that were not the women and children already present in the safety of the caves. In time they drew all their men inside the Deep. Most were given orders to ready themselves upon the Deeping Wall, while the king and the men of his household took shelter in the Hornburg. The steady groaning of the mountain grew beneath the constant paces of the enemy, a small roaring that became ever more insistent as the seconds passed. They had little time before the stronghold would find itself under siege, and the men already prepared watched the distant red orange fires with the same anticipation a moth showed a flame.

Their company once again down by one, the three hunters loosed their horses with the guard that had been spared to keep them safe, and their mounts disappeared into the heights of the stronghold to join the others. While they were already arrayed well enough with weaponry and mail, it was with a desire to take stock of the situation that they descended into the Hornburg's armoury. Upon arriving, Gimli apparently decided it was best to let Aragorn do whatever it was he wished to accomplish on his own, and he found a tall wooden chair in which he was happy to prop himself. Here he rested whilst the ranger and elf eyed the available stock of weapons and armour, watching it disappear steadily into the throng of men that came to claim what they could.

It was when they realised how small their numbers stood compared to the sea of flame and steel that steadily approached the Deep that Legolas expressed his concern. The elf was sure it would be naught but a slaughter, and he pointed out the fear dancing in every man's eyes and as well that the able bodied were not all, in fact, entirely able. Aragorn responded with ferocity, taking a few steps in Legolas's direction and meeting his eye with a gaze carved with dagger; if death was their fate, he would fall by their sides, as one of them. Gimli was forced to hold the elf back as the ranger turned on his heel, leaving his belongings behind in his eagerness to remove himself from any company. He wanted solitude, yet at the same time he found himself desiring not to have to think. Certainly the forces they had mustered here at the Hornburg were not enough to defeat the hordes that had emptied from Isengard and stood upon their doorstep. But this was not worth considering. They must fight, and fight they would, with hope at least of holding off the enemy and inflicting as much damage upon their masses as possible. There may be no glory ahead, but he was determined also that there would be no regret.

Aragorn stepped swiftly down a set of steps that branched off the hall, not too far from the rooms from when he'd come. His steps echoed harshly in his ears as he turned the corner at the bottom of the stairs. finding himself in a small corridor lined with windows. The pitch of night hung heavily outside, so coarse it lent no light to the hallway and left the torch fires uncontested and burning slowly. The ranger stepped up toward the stone sill of one archway and placed his palms flat on its cool surface, letting his weight shift forward to lean on his hands. He stared into the deep sky in hopes of catching a glimpse of some twinkling star or facet of moon, no matter how faint. But the heavens remained hidden from the word behind a sea of black bellied cloud. A sharp sigh escaped through his nose and he closed his eyes, letting his head fall forward while he breathed slowly. He wished to calm his nerves. The night air was thick and warm and did little to clear his head. It began to feel as though the more he breathed it in, the heavier his chest became. With a small, frustrated growl he pulled back from the window and, without turning, took a few backward steps.

The air was no different, but he inhaled deeply again, eyes unfocusing to some point outside beneath the cover of night. He had not been standing there long when he felt a hand on his shoulder and a subdued voice reached his ears.

"Aragorn."

His anger not yet spent, indeed now flashing like an oil fire, the man spun without hesitation. He knew to whom the voice belonged, but it was as if the single word spoken by the elf gave cause to further incense him. He struck out as the figure behind him in a move that was not intended to harm, but that forced Legolas back up against the wall next to the steps. Aragorn held his forearm across his friend's chest, his elbow digging into the soft flesh at the inside of the elf's left arm and his hand grasping the opposite shoulder tightly to hold that arm in place. His eyes were raging clouds, and they unleashed such a fury in their gaze as to nearly cause Legolas to forget just who was there, pinning him to the wall. The elf offered no struggle, only held up his left hand placatingly and lifted his head back just far enough that he could feel his hair brush against the rough granite behind him. This did not leave much room between himself and the furour of the man only inches away. Legolas nearly closed his eyes at the familiarity of the warm breath he now felt against his cheek, but he forced them to remain open and in even contact with the silver blue pair looming so closely. He felt his throat hitch as he tried to swallow, but he was able to say one word in a clear, soft voice. "Estel."

At this, the ranger's lashes fluttered over his eyes when he blinked rapidly, as if he were unexpectedly returning from somewhere not at all similar to where he now found himself. His eyes became taut and a distant wind seemed to blow the raging storm away, leaving behind only a cool, uncertain ocean that now searched Legolas's face. He did not ease the pressure with which he held his friend against the wall, but he did drop his eyes in an effort to take in the situation. His brow furrowed as if he were surprised to find himself standing as he was, bearing much of his weight on the arm laid across the elf's chest. With a ragged breath, he tilted his head upward, expression becoming drawn as he did so. When at last he met Legolas's gaze once more, the calm ocean in his eyes had once again become tumultuous; they no longer held anger, but a strange comprehension and the beginnings of a tide of anguish that threatened to overthrow them. Slowly, his fingers relaxed their grip and he transferred some of his weight off his arm. Though instead of easily leaning back, he stepped in closer to Legolas to allow his legs to bear the burden of his weight.

The elf shifted only a fraction, acutely aware of his proximity to Aragorn but wanting to quiet the aches the rock pressed into his shoulders. He made no other move just yet, every sense attuned to the soft rush of air between them, the coalescing of fabrics that clung to their bodies and the heat he could feel coming off the ranger's skin. As he returned the man's searching look, his mouth pulled into a soft grimace. His friend's head fell forward slightly, and quietly, Legolas allowed his own head to drop until his forehead met Aragorn's. The man did not flinch, and he could not help but smile to himself. They stood like this for some time before the man allowed his eyes to slip closed. Legolas watched him with an expression worn with confusion and concern, but he waited, unmoving, and let his friend collect himself. It was all the elf could do to keep his breathing at some level of normalcy, or to lift a hand to the troubled cheek before him. The knot in his stomach felt suddenly as a beast that threatened to claw its way up and out through his throat, trapped there as be was between the wall and Aragorn's body, but he set his jaw harshly to quell the feeling.

At length, grey blue eyes slipped open, this time tinted with a grave determination, and Aragorn let his arm fall away from his friend. It ceased its journey halfway to his side, then, and his hand came up once more. Reaching with a battle weathered hand toward the pale skin of the elf's face, the ranger swallowed thickly and inclined his chin. Their mingled breath traced warm shapes over lips with barely a trace left of the night air between them.

"Aragorn..."

One lip brushed faintly against another. "Legolas, I must--" the man said as he heard his name fade into the shadows surrounding them. But before his fingers could connect with anything, a hand grasped him around the wrist. Aragorn's brow quirked downward, but the firm grip was released and there came to rest a finger pressed against his lips.

"Forgive me," was all the elf said, pulling away enough so that he might now raise the arm that was now freed and holding Aragorn's belt and sheathed sword. He dropped his other hand from the man's face and lifted a collection of leather and metal with both hands in offering, his mouth upturning in a smile.

Aragorn inhaled a sharper breath than he'd intended as he felt the slight pressure against his lips disappear. He tore his eyes away to look down at what Legolas held for him. He was not entirely certain of the subject of Legolas's apology -- though perhaps it was more than one thing. He felt as if he needed a long drink to sooth the parched ache that sprang up so suddenly within his throat, but he nodded in thanks and reached out to take what was offered him. Not immediately trusting himself to speak, Aragorn let his fingers run over the scabbard and then grasped the sword and belt both. With a sudden, but slowly executed step backward, the man finally locked eyes once again with the elf prince.

"Ú-moe edaved, Legolas." The elf's past words were deliberately returned to him, and his ears rang with their distant echo. Aragorn did not look away, and he lifted his hand to grip his friend warmly on the shoulder. Flexing his hand softly for a moment, he reached up to brush the elf's cheek with his fingertips. "Too often of late have we been seeking to render some apology between us."

Before Legolas had the chance to respond, the sound of horns slicing though the walls of the keep reached their ears, reverberating off rock and stone and gliding down hall and stair to shatter the stillness. It was the final call to gather the Rohirrim. Battle was nigh, and it was but a final, lingering glance the two gave each other before taking off up the steps. Once they reached Gimli, Aragorn set off to join Éomer, leaving the elf and dwarf together to attend the forces gathered on the Deeping Wall. As they parted in the crowd, Legolas felt a hand on his arm for the briefest of moments, and then the ranger was gone.

"Well, come on, laddie, yer not goin' soft on me now, are yeh?" Gimli growled as he jabbed Legolas lightly in the side. The elf started, turning with a drawn brow toward the dwarf, but he nodded and wasted no more time. He and Gimli took to the hall, setting out to fill their places and await the forces of Isengard.

...

The battle was hard fought. Time after time the men had nearly lost the wall to the never ending flood of Orcs and Uruk-hai and the men of Dunland, such was Isengard's endless well of dark soldiers. At length, much of the wall had been destroyed in a blast of granite that decimated an entire portion; the Hornburg had been flooded with a black river of deformed creatures of battle seeping in through every hole in rock and stone. It was with a final rally of hope that the king and his men rode out with Aragorn in such a charge that nothing withstood their wrath. It was the coming of dawn that brought with it the return of Gandalf and a host of men at his heels. The wizard had sought out Erkenbrand and his remaining men, and they now came in a lasting charge that tore gaping holes in the legions of the enemy, sundering them into a madness that fled in terror toward the trees. It was from beneath these trees that they would never emerge alive.

Théoden put forth his intent to join Gandalf on his passage to Isengard, and chose a host of men that would attend alongside him. But they had need of sleep and time to recover their strength, so they returned at once to the Hornburg in search of this respite. Gimli, who had at one heart wrenching moment in the battle seemed lost to them, had taken a wound to the head. The dwarf refused to allow it to slow him down, or prevent him from joining the journey ahead. His helm was nearly split, taking the worst of the blow, but he was in need of aid if the injury were to heal properly. Aragorn said he would tend it while the dwarf rested, and despite the short argument, Gimli finally acquiesced.

Aragorn clapped a hand on Gimli's shoulder, careful not to jar him, and they turned their backs on the fields of dead. The fallen would be tended to and buried by those who were not under swift need for other duties. A small messenger party rode with happy haste past Legolas and his companions, and at once, in their wake of victory, it became easier to remember there would be a time for mourning, but it was not now. With lighter steps helped aloft by happy, if tired, hearts, the three made their way back to the Hornburg, carefully scaling or sidestepping the rubble that remained of the Deeping Wall.

The ranger led Gimli to the bed in a small room and convinced him to lie down. The dwarf's cap was removed but not tossed aside, rather placed carefully onto the table against the wall. Within moments of being relieved of this pressure, the ranger's short friend was sleeping. With water and cloth and gentle strokes, Aragorn cleaned the wound on Gimli's head, humming softly to himself as he worked with care. Once the mud and blood had been washed away, the ranger rung out the cloth one last time before setting it side on the floor. He had already removed his belt and its myriad decorations when they arrived, and he stepped now to the table. He pulled the thin leather strings of one pouch, reaching inside to remove a clump of greyish green. Tugging some leaves from the plant in his hands, he chewed them slowly as he replaced the remainder back into the pouch. Turning back to Gimli, Aragorn removed the pulp of leaves from his mouth and placed them onto the wound. The dwarf stirred, but did not wake, and at last the man wrapped a second cloth over the mashed leaves to keep them in place, and to prevent them drying out. His friend should be in fine shape once he woke.

Legolas had remained in the hall when they'd arrived at this room and set himself to pacing quietly and unhurriedly outside the open door. After some time, the sound of snoring reached him, and he paused, bow still in one hand, and stepped to the threshold. "How is he?" the elf asked, looking to the bed where Gimli's broad chest rose and fell seemingly without worry.

"Exhausted," Aragorn said, slowly wiping his hands on another towel and letting that drop onto the table, his eyes on Legolas the entire time. "But with rest he will heal quickly, enough even to be quite himself once he wakes later. His stubbornness is no surprise to me," the ranger added, taking a few steps in the elf's direction.

"I am glad." With a slight smile, Legolas looked from the prone figure of the dwarf and toward the man in front of him as he lifted his bow and stored it over his shoulder. He surveyed Aragorn with cool eyes, but the corners of his mouth remained slightly upturned. When the ranger made no move, the elf took a step back, leaving enough room for someone to pass by him. Aragorn's eye was caught by a motion of the elf's arm as Legolas gestured with a hand outside the room. The message received, Aragorn lifted his chin in acknowledgement and brushed past his friend, pulling the door closed behind him. His throat felt tight, and he lifted a hand to the fabric around his neck to give it a frustrated tug. Legolas was already striding ahead of him, and the man followed. His friend did not go far, as the elf merely wished to allow some breathing room should Gimli wake.

They both came to a halt after they had passed only a few empty rooms, and Aragorn was surprised to find hands on either sides of his shoulders pushing him back against the wall without warning. The action was not rough, despite the pressure he felt from Legolas's hands, and thought this a taste of his own medicine, to which it would be foolish to object. The only thing the ranger offered the eyes now staring intently into his was a clouded look, one withered with exhaustion yet with something still glinting underneath. The skin at the corners of his own eyes crinkled faintly.

Legolas leaned in close, the trace of any smile now completely wiped from his expression as he carefully searched Aragorn's face. The silence weighed over them as real as heavy winter cloaks, and it was almost to the point the ranger could no longer stand it when finally the elf spoke. "You take foolish risks, Estel." There was a hardness behind the penetrating blue stare that Aragorn could not place, but he could not deny the words rubbed him the wrong way.

"I did naught but what was necessary to defend--" the ranger began heatedly, his head moving tersely with his words, but he was cut off by the force of his shoulders being pressed flat into the layered stone behind him.

"No," came the short reply as Legolas moved in even closer, his knee brushing against the man's, though he made no move to displace it. "I speak not of risking body and life in war or battle," the elf continued with a heavy breath, and Aragorn's muscles tensed involuntarily. Legolas's eyes tightened somewhat, and he corrected himself without explanation. His gaze softened. "Nay, not entirely." His grip relaxed enough to allow the ranger's shoulders to sink forward from their harsh position against the stone.

Aragorn's throat tightened and relaxed as he swallowed roughly, his jaw twitching as if he meant to speak, but no words came. A moment passed, and he lifted one hand to run it through his hair in a display of frustration. His action unseated Legolas's hand from his shoulder, but the elf did not withdraw it. Instead, he let it drop lower and come to rest flat against the centre of Aragorn's chest. The ranger ceased all movement for a second before allowing his arms to drop loosely to his sides. "Legolas..." he said cautiously, eyes flicking back and forth in their focus on the elf's face as he sought understanding. He could feel sweat beginning to bead upon his brow, and he blinked slowly as for a second, the world seemed to sway. He pressed his palms back, flat against the wall to steady himself.

"The air is hot, can you not feel it?" his friend said at length, the sound of his voice distant, mirroring a look that flashed briefly through the elf's eyes as he broke the man's gaze to give a suspicious glance around them. Legolas blinked slowly as if clearing himself from the fog of some uncertain thought and again met Aragorn's gaze. "It seeks to seep into all of us with some invisible malice, to twist beyond recognition whatever it might find within its grasp." There was hardly any room left between them, but he stepped closer, and the fingers that lay against Aragorn's chest curled just enough to pull some fabric into their hold, and then stilled.

Aragorn's figure slumped slightly, his head falling forward as he sighed. His hands were still at his sides against the stone, for he feared moving them just yet. "I can," the man said at last; the atmosphere was thick with something none of them had yet been able to discern, and it had not dissipated with the defeat of Saruman's forces. His mind was reeling and his eyes tilted downward to the slender fingers caught up int he cloth of his shirt: just above his heart. Aragorn took a deep breath, lifting his gaze back to the elf's face, watching the shifting paths of gold trimmed shadows the firelight cast over his soft features. "Legolas--" he began again, but before more words could tumble past his lips, he felt the remaining weight recede from his shoulder and the strikingly familiar feel of fingers against his mouth.

"It sets the mind to a fever," the elf said, his expression becoming grave and his eyes unmoving as he regarded Aragorn. "And seeks to entangle one's thoughts until it becomes unclear which come from the heart, and which arrive from some place unknown and ignoble." Legolas fell silent for a moment, his eyes becoming hooded. He dropped a hand back to Aragorn's shoulder, leaving the man's mouth unhindered. When again he spoke, his voice was muted and his eyes remained downcast, staring at the fibre he held tightly in his other hand. "It wishes to make us forget ourselves, at times..." Legolas remembered well enough his friend's unanticipated reaction to his initially friendly ambush in the guest halls of Edoras. While the elf had not felt compelled to antagonise the man further, neither had he been willing to allow Aragorn to enforce such an upper hand while he merely walked away.

The ranger licked his lips and let his upper body rest more heavily against the wall. His friend was right; he had been forgetting himself more often of late, and coming to blows with Legolas had so far been the most obvious consequence. And the way he had turned on him just before the battle had begun. His brow furrowed deeply as his eyes ceased flicking back and forth in the only evidence of any internal conflict. "And you mellon nîn, do you find yourself so troubled?" His gaze steadied itself on the face of his fair friend, and one hand left its supportive place on the stone behind him to be placed on the elf's shoulder.

Legolas shook his head, his attention refocusing at the offered contact. "I feel it strongly, around us all, but it is not my heart that causes me worry." At this, his blue eyes locked with the grey across from him, and he lifted his chin.

"Not your heart," Aragorn repeated slowly, his voice strained and low in his throat. His face flushed with a suddenness that caught him well off guard, and he broke eye contact with the elf to turn his head aside. He found himself locking his jaw in an attempt to bite back something to which he was not quite able to give a name but that made him feel as if he'd been hit hard in the gut. Absently, the ranger lifted his other hand off the wall and laid it across his stomach, brushing against the elf's wrist where his friend still clutched his over shirt. The feeling caused his throat to constrict and drew his concentration back to Legolas. "Ú hûn lîn, sennui nîn," Aragorn said, the tone of his voice regaining a warm composure. The firelight flickered mutedly off a background of grey, distant flashes of lightning in a motionless rain storm.

Legolas proffered a subdued smile, and at last let his fingers loose on the fabric as he dropped both hands to his side. Aragorn started faintly at the loss of contact, but allowed himself to do nothing more. "I do not question that you remember who awaits you at journey's end," was all the elf said before he stepped back from the ranger, his boots soundless over the flagstone.

Aragorn could not help but believe the elf could at that moment see straight through him, piercing clothes and flesh and staring sharp eyes at the heart that now pounded so strongly within his breast; it kept tempo with the breaths that came and went so rapidly. Of course he had not forgotten, never lost the knowledge of the sacrifice so freely offered him, nestled quietly away in its own recess within his chest. Even in his brief visitation to this memory of Arwen he knew it could not fade, no matter what influence sought to twist or remove it completely from the depths of his soul. But elsewhere within him, there was a turbulence growing ever less intense in its uncertainty, and ever more ardent in its insistent presence. It was this, too, that Legolas saw, and he was sure now it was one aspect of the elf's concern. He nodded, his shoulders falling with a heavy sigh beneath the weight of his burgeoning mistrust in himself. Yet he knew not why Legolas should be so worried about this; certainly, despite the existence of feelings of which he was growing well enough aware, the acknowledgement of possible causes should remain prominent enough in his mine to prevent any more uncouth reactions. Unless -- Aragorn's eyes lifted with immediacy and he pinned the elf under a steady gaze. What exactly was the elf saying?

"Legolas, is there something --" The ranger's question was cut off as promptly as it had begun, severed, but not before the meaning had sprung deftly to hang in the air like a shield between them. Aragorn could feel the air change as the elf took another step backward and placed a palm on the handle of the knife in his belt.

"The sound of snoring has ceased. I think Gimli must be awake," the elf said, lifting the other hand in a way that brooked no argument as he turned his head in the direction of the dwarf's room. "Someone should go to him before he rouses himself and causes further injury." His pale face still held a smile, but it was not reflected anywhere in the depths of blue above that Aragorn could see. The man half opened his mouth to speak, but the look on the elf's face made him think better of it. He settled for a nod, ignoring the sharp twinge beneath his ribs. Again, he conceded his friend was right; he must be more attentive and careful in discerning what was real and what was not. This was but a figment, some ethereal wandering of emotion whose intent must be impure. It must. A strangled breath escaped his throat, and he strode back to Gimli's room to check on his charge, telling himself he did not hear the sound of footfalls fleeing quickly behind him.

* * *

**Ú-moe edaved.** -- 'There is nothing to forgive.'  
**Ú hûn lîn, sennui nîn** -- 'Not your heart, rather mine.'

* * *

**Author's notes continued...**

**Aislynn**: Sorry you are disappointed, but there is more at work here than merely unresolved feelings between the two -- which they are in fact trying _not_ to express. Not only this, but aside from some evil will, mentioned several times, that seems to be having an effect on so many in strange ways, I have known very mature and respectable people to forget their places once in a while when faced with such things. Both of these circumstances together are shaping the resultant behaviour beyond what it might be under 'normal' conditions, especially when the dynamics are further complicated when such formalities are oft overlooked between friends. It was also not a 'fight', but a contest that disintegrated into a rather low brow one-upmanship the both of them regretted. If you want a straightforward story that just jumps right into a mature resolution of relationship issues, then I'm afraid this isn't it.


	6. Chapter Six

**Author's Notes:**

Characters and the world of Arda copyright Tolkien and all that, no money being made, utmost respect for his works. 

**** I hate to put this here but I feel terrible my anti-spam program just ate someone's email (1/6/04 about 1.15pm EST) -- please resend :(**

Remember, updates, cookies, other fandom related material can be found on my livejournal: 

In this chapter, a major confrontation, tests of strength and will, of the unspoken things that lay still between Aragorn and Legolas. 

Any elvish translations are at the bottom, and I apologise in advance for any mistakes, as I am terrible at languages and am stuck with some rather poor dictionaries and lists of grammatical rules... 

Thanks once again to all the reviewers, I feel good enough about this to keep going, with hope that I can manage to finish with the same intent with which I began! More individual responses at the end to avoid clogging the notes here. 

**Gwyn:** Physical elf angst, eh? We'll see what I can do... :) 

Warnings: Slash, the rating takes a jump higher here, hence the overall R rating for this story. 

**Chapter 6**

His retreat led him back to the confines of the same hall in which he'd earlier found Aragorn. His boots made no noise as they passed over the flagstone and stopped before one of the arched windows; the only sound was the rushing of his breath as he inhaled deeply. Carefully, Legolas removed his quiver and set it and his bow on the floor to one side. Had he been more inclined to allow his emotions to overtake him, he might have thrown his things to the ground, but a warrior is never foolish enough to abuse his own weapons. Instead the only sign of the tumultuous onslaught within his breast was the slight shaking of his hands as he folded his arms, and the way the corners of his mouth were pulled back ever so faintly. Sickness rose within him in great waves that threatened to break at any moment, and it was all he could do to shut his eyes and allow the pitiful breeze to wash over him and fight them back. Legolas's efforts were proving futile, as the wind seemed no less ill than he, and it was not long before he turned his back on the vista before him and felt his legs give way almost of their own accord. His body slid quickly down the lower part of the wall as he nearly fell to the ground. 

The elf drew his knees upward until his arms, still crossed, were pressed tightly against his stomach. There was not a time he could recall in his thousands of years that he had felt anything like this. He wondered briefly if it was at all similar to the common ailments suffered by the race of men; if it was he was certain he did not envy it. He sighed softly, trying to clear his mind. Yet lending to this dizzy, nauseatingly disarming storm that had seized hold of his insides was a feeling to which he was entirely a stranger. Legolas could sense it, needling beneath his flesh, beginning to work its claws into his heart. The feeling was faint enough, as a splinter beneath the skin that caused pain only when it was worried. But it was waiting, like the tips of an eagle's talons biding their time until the chance came to crush heavily into their prey. He squeezed his eyes shut softly, fighting back the grief that stalked silently in his chest, and tried to swallow down the sour taste that burned the back of his throat. That was one thing he might envy -- lesser degree to which men could feel. 

At length, the sound of someone approaching caused Legolas to open his eyes. He watched the light from torch and window mingle in the corners and seams of floor and wall, but he did not stand. The heavy footfalls and gruff breath identified Gimli to his ears, and he was not sure he could trust his legs to hold him anyway. Realising his eyes were damp, he quickly wiped them with a sleeve in a motion of annoyance. Under no circumstances was he prepared to present _that_ to the dwarf, friend or not; he'd never hear the end of it, and he was angry with himself for the effect he was allowing his emotions to have. It was a minute before Gimli finally ambled into the corridor, making a satisfied sound as he spied the elf sitting with his back against the wall, the light filtering down to gild his hair and cast shadow upon his face. 

Gimli cleared his throat as he approached Legolas, stopping next to him but making no move to join him just yet. "So, is our elvish princeling too good fer a bed? Have ta sit 'ere against'a bunch o' rock, suff'rin' like some crazy --" He was cut off by a sharp look from Legolas, and arched a brow. 

"I thought I would leave the sleep to you, my friend," the elf said, his voice thicker than he would have liked as he could still feel a sour taste in his throat. He tightened his fingers where they rest around his forearms. "Out looking for more trouble?" 

"Apparently so," Gimli said, half thoughtfully. The dwarf remained silent for a moment before deigning to seat himself a short distance from his friend. Legolas took notice that Gimli carried none of his typical accoutrement of axes, and though his brow lifted he made no comment. 

"How did you find me, then?" the elf asked, feigning disinterest, although he could not help but hold a certain appreciation for Gimli's sudden appearance. It served to blunt the edge of his uneasiness. Legolas relaxed his position just enough to allow himself to drape both arms over his knees. 

A snort reached the elf's ears, followed by the rumble of the dwarf's voice. "Aragorn told me I might wish ta look 'ere." Gimli did not miss the slight widening of his friend's eyes and added, with a dismissing gesture of his hand, "Said it was where 'e woulda gone." It was the dwarf's turn to widen his eyes, though in an unvoiced question rather than surprise. 

Legolas looked away, letting his eyes roam down the hall through the haze of day that was cut through with the light slicing in from the windows. He let his gaze linger, watching the dust motes rise and fall, unwilling to speak until Gimli did so first. He could hear the dull, choking moan that the wind carried with it, likening it somehow to the breaths he took in this wordless silence, the sound of something trapped deep within him that had discovered it had no way out. 

"Even those of us with less ability to take notice o' such things c'n see yeh've been troubled, of late." When the dwarf did speak it was with kinder tones than the elf expected, the burr of his voice almost soothing. Legolas turned back to his friend, and for the first time locked gazes with some trepidation. "I said b'fore, I don't claim ta know what's goin' on, but I cannot stand back an' watch this heartache any longer." Gimli's face was unusually grave as he spoke, the lines in his face for once betraying his near century and a half of age, his hands folded over his legs. 

At this, the elf cast his eyes to the floor, his pale brow furrowing and serving to further darken his features. "You cannot understand, Gimli," Legolas said with a distantly strained voice. He was not entirely surprised that the source of the tension between himself and Aragorn had not gone wholly undiscovered. But he found he was not prepared to explain this, not to the dwarf, and not to anyone else. 

"Oh, of course I can't," Gimli replied, clearly only to mollify the elf, as this was not the point. "But I c'n see in these times o' darkness an' despair, that one should not cast aside so easily chances o' the heart. We stand on th' edge o' the world ending, an' less an' less come to us all any chances of happiness." This set a dark cloud over the elf's face, and Gimli had trouble discerning his friend's response. "I only say that yeh may find reason not to be so 'ard on yerself, laddie. I can see no reason to throw yerself so readily to grief." The dwarf had begun to stand as he spoke these last words, and now he laid a roughened hand on Legolas's shoulder. 

The elf swallowed sharply, his unusual discomfort showing in a slight grimace. But at last he looked up, finding he could do no more than give a small nod to his friend. The dwarf accepted this with a smile, and took a few steps back the way he had come. "We've a few hours yet I think," he said over his shoulder, his usual gruffness returning already. "I don' know about you, but I'm goin' to get some rest." 

Legolas listened rather than watched Gimli depart, the heavy steps echoing like distant drums down the corridor. He sat motionless for a long while, fighting off the choking breaths that threatened to escape him and breathing from the foul night air deeply. He was almost thankful for its wretched taste. Gimli's words still hung in the air, substantial enough he could almost see them swimming in the shafts of light patterning the hallway. He shook his head to no one at all, his shoulders falling beneath the burden of responsibility and the things his dwarven friend could never understand. Ripping his glare from the ground, at last he stood, gathering his things to him and disappearing swiftly into the shadows of the Hornburg. 

Aragorn sat with his head in his hands resting on the bed in which Gimli had been sleeping but a short time before. His fingers were curled around several tresses of hair, and his body sagged as if he were nearly asleep himself. The sound of footsteps roused him, and he untangled his fingers and let his arms fall onto his thighs. Little time had passed since Gimli had left him in search of the elf, and this puzzled him. Certainly the dwarf could not have given up looking so easily. 

Appearing in the doorway, the dwarf paused, taking in the rather shabby sight of the ranger on the edge of the mattress. Gimli crossed his arms over his chest and straightened, giving Aragorn a discerning, and quite nearly disapproving, stare. "You were right," he offered finally, stepping into the room. "Those elves are a strange race, one moment complainin' about our so called uninhabitable caves o' stone, and the next seekin' out the same rock to rest against." 

The ranger sought to banish all thoughts of the elf from his mind, and so was not inclined to join his friend's initial conversation. He'd told the dwarf where he might find Legolas only because he thought he would be allowed some time to himself while the two were together. He had imagined them spending hours mulling over whatever Gimli wished somewhat eagerly to discuss, judging by his earnest inquiries into the elf's whereabouts. 

"What, did he not wish company?" the man asked with somewhat of a wry grimace. He would not be surprised to learn that Legolas had turned the dwarf away in a similar desire to avoid his post battle surliness. 

"I think," Gimli said after a pause as he studied the ranger carefully from across the room, "that he quite desires company. But I had need only to relay some information, an' now that I've cleared that up, I'm back to rest with an unburdened mind." He stepped heavily toward the side of the bed with a look that left the ranger no room for protest. 

Aragorn exhaled softly, but he gave his friend a small smile. "Of course, my friend," he said, sweeping his arm above the bed before stepping away and taking his belt from the table. He fastened it around his waist, situating the sword in its scabbard above one hip, and moved toward the door. "Your head is not causing much trouble, I take it?" he asked finally as he turned halfway in the threshold. 

"Nay, less pain than a scratch," Gimli said with a throaty chuckle. There was in his eyes a gleam of thanks, though he did not put it to words, and Aragorn nodded deeply to his friend. "Aragorn..." Gimli's voice reached him just as he'd turned to pass through the doorway, and the ranger was forced to look back again. "We have all suffered at the hands of ill fate. You need not abandon yer heart to your sense of duty." 

Aragorn could only stare at the dwarf, who suddenly waved him away with a grin. With a look of incredulity, the ranger walked out the door, catching the handle with his hand as he passed and sought to pull it closed behind him. Just before the door clicked shut he found himself face to face with Gandalf. The ranger managed to avoid starting at the sudden appearance of the wizard, but his brow lowered and he silently chastised himself for having failed to expect Gandalf's rather inevitable presence. 

"And how does our dear Gimli fair this late morning?" Gandalf spoke first, his high spirits evident in the smile he gave the man. The wizard made no move toward the room, however, and instead motioned for Aragorn to close the door completely. The ranger complied, dropping his hand to his side as soon as he felt the click of the latch. 

"He heals quickly," the ranger answered, squaring his frame as he faced Gandalf. "I treated the wound earlier. It could have been much worse had his helm not taken the fiercest of the blow." The man grasped one hand loosely in the other. "He is sleeping now," Aragorn added as a soft snoring rattled trough the wood behind him. "We can wake him shortly before we are to depart." 

The wizard nodded, moving his staff from one hand to the other as he stepped closer to Aragorn. "Good, good," he said cheerfully, motioning one arm so that the engulfing fabric of his cloak fell back and left it unhindered. "I am glad you were able to convince him to rest, he would have been most aggrieved to find himself staying behind while we ventured to Isengard." 

"I wonder if he would have found himself at all," the man said, unable to prevent a smile from creasing his features, and it eased his heart for a moment. "Had we forced him to stay I fear he might singlehandedly have brought into question our standing with Rohan by stealing a horse and, I daresay, attempting to ride it on his own. In fact, I am not sure which would be the more serious crime." 

This brought a great laugh from the wizard that reverberated off the walls and drifted down into the unseen corridors beyond. "Yes, yes, I imagine you are quite right," Gandalf said, placing his free hand on Aragorn's shoulder. His face became more serious, the lines around his eyes deepening and his mouth drawing into a line. "It is good that we can find such humour in the shadow of the days that await us," he said with a low timbre as his voice regained its rough gravity. Aragorn, who had been affected by the contagious laughter of the old man suddenly felt his change in mood abandon him, and the solemnity return. Whatever humour one might find was short lived, it seemed, and the ranger could not feel any lasting effects from the momentarily careless banter. 

"We must not allow our hearts to drown beneath the coming days," Gandalf continued at length, leaning in to speak softly to the ranger. "Fate awaits us all, my friend, but even on such journeys as these we all have our choices to make. And not all of them are as difficult as they may at first appear." With this, he clapped his hand lightly before removing it from Aragorn's shoulder and taking his staff from his other hand. With a final smile, the wizard departed, his white robes billowing like stray cloud behind him, the only sound his staff tapping lightly with every other step. 

Aragorn watched him retreat, his eyes unfocused, his features contorted in disbelief. It was apparent the wizard had not been oblivious to the tension in the air, and the ranger was forced to admit that he would have been rather disconcerted had Gandalf not so easily discerned the cause. A moment of reflection made it quite obvious to Aragorn that he and Legolas had been anything but discreet in their deliberations. Perhaps they had been too caught up in gauging the cause and delivering the effect to lend care to their actions. And now he found himself beneath offerings of advice for which he had not asked, which he had not wanted and which now brought up within him such a feeling of dread he thought he might be sick. In his mind he had come to a conclusion that was now called into question. With no outside influence he could allow himself to trust in the rightness of his decision, could fool himself into believing that his denial of heart was the only path forward. Instead he found words of contradiction coming from Gimli, and now Gandalf of all people: the wizard, the one who had long sought his return to the throne of Gondor and all the duties it entailed. 

Lifting his hand, fingers contracting tightly, he placed a fist over his heart in response to the rapid tempo that sprang up within his chest. He closed his eyes and leaned lightly against the door to Gimli's room to brace himself as his head was once again thrown into a match of strength with his heart. It was like this, head hanging low as he used the door for support, his hand clutching at the very same fabric that had earlier been held in a much fairer hand, that Legolas found him. 

The elf stepped silently up the hall, intending to track down Gimli. He found himself wishing to speak with the dwarf; of what, precisely, he remained unsure, but he was not entirely content to leave their conversation so open ended. As soon as his eyes fell upon the form of Aragorn, he paused, half prepared to turn without a sound and find shelter in solitude once again. It appeared Gimli was already resting, or else had company that was not to be disturbed, though he could hear no voices. He told himself he had no reason to stay. 

Aragorn opened his eyes as he took a deep breath, straightening himself to his full height, though he still held his hand solidly over his chest. Legolas's chance at an unnoticed exit evaporated as the ranger looked down the hall and locked eyes with the elf. So instead of turning away, Legolas forced himself to approach, his fingers wrapped so tightly around his bow his knuckles were white. His heart beat wildly in his chest and he was sure the man could hear his breathing even at this distance. Stopping a few paces from the man, he jerked his chin toward the door and managed to avoid clearing his throat. "Sleeping again, is he?" he asked, determined not to show his unease. Aragorn was his closest friend, and he would not allow things to change because of some vile treachery upon the wind. 

The only reaction the ranger gave at his surprise was to clench his fist more tightly on the cloth of his shirt. A moment later, he swallowed visibly and released his hand, leaving the fabric wrinkled and out of place before he dropped his arm. "He is," Aragorn replied with a curt nod, taking a step away from the door so that his voice stood less of a chance of carrying through to Gimli. "Gandalf has agreed to wake him shortly before we leave," he added, thinking the elf might wish to know when he could approach the dwarf if his visit carried some urgency. "We have some hours before our departure. He will do well with the rest." 

Legolas nodded absently and had to force himself to stand his ground as the ranger stepped away from Gimli's room. Whether this was because he thought he might find himself retreating, or because he feared he would step toward the man he was not sure, but he held fast and kept his feet planted as they were. Aragorn's face appeared conflicted, and it looked as if the ranger were struggling for the right words amidst a sea of contrary ideas. The elf was uncertain how long the silence hung between them, but at last Aragorn stepped toward him. Eyes narrowing slightly, Legolas searched the man's face, but found himself unable to discover his intent. 

As Aragorn closed the distance between them, he lifted an arm toward the elf in a jagged motion that broke off as soon as it had begun as he thought better of it. Instead he let his hand fall awkwardly onto the pommel of his sword. Believing that if he did not set some task to his limbs he might find himself in a less, or perhaps more, desirable position, he motioned with the other arm for them to walk down the hall. Aragorn did not allow the silence to draw out much longer, and he set his jaw, deciding that if he said nothing now he would only find himself lost in the same struggle that had plagued him for so many hours. 

"I know I spoke of forgetting our apologies, and the wrongs we thought we had done one another," the ranger began, his voice more throaty than he'd hoped, and he fought back a cough. "But for the days past where I have seemed inconstant and distant, I do offer my regrets. It was never my intent to neglect our friendship. And I have taken your earlier words to heart --" His voice broke there because he knew that this was untrue; he had taken them to mind but his heart would hear them not, and fought tooth and nail to free itself from beneath their oppressive weight. He forced himself to continue, feeling the metal of the sword handle bite eagerly into his flesh as his grip tightened. "I will no longer let whatever underhanded presence that holds these lands stand in the way of our friendship. I would not have some unfounded turn of heart make strange the air between us." 

Legolas could do naught but offer a nod as the words buried themselves in his skin, igniting a terrifying cold in his limbs. The claws surrounding his heart constricted, and he was barely able to defy a small gasp that bubbled up from the ache in his breast. He steeled himself by sheer will alone, as he already gripped his bow so tightly his hand had begun to burn. The elf's head swam, and he found his legs protesting their role in supporting him. He could not help but scrutinise Aragorn's face, which seemed to him faintly twisted, his eyes a dark and brooding curtain. Had the man truly deemed his desires unfounded, and determined the best road was to set them aside as folly? Legolas held his gaze steady, and after what seemed an age Aragorn's expression faltered, shattered like a mirror that breaks not completely, but just enough to see past the reflection to some shards of the world behind. Legolas caught the uncertain quirk of the ranger's brows and the sharp flash deep within his eyes. For a moment, the elf was unwilling to acknowledge it. 

It had been so easy for Legolas to hide behind the bonds of friendship when there was no chance of anything else. He'd found some vague salvation in his role as friend, and the terms to which he'd held his heart then had been just acceptable enough. But since the days he'd first felt that searing gaze his heart had been troubled, unable to find respite and growing day by day ever more desperate and sore. It was in some ways worse that he thought these nearly discarnate feelings Aragorn presented were conjured by some ill ward of the Shadow. But the idea that it would pass and the honour gained in his refusal to allow either of them to fall into it had been enough to console him. This, though -- this was the culmination of what he had feared above all. That the man's feelings might have arrived from within his own heart, and it was not some form of vile trickery, was what had brought him to grief in the past days. It had taken hold of his heart and surely would never again let go. 

It was not his anger at this that drove him, rather only broke his restraint. His free hand rose up and grasped that same place of unkempt cloth it had the day before, and in an instant he had pushed Aragorn against the wall for a second time. Legolas ignored the man's evident surprise and stepped closer, pressing his body against the ranger so close did he stand. The elf's face was close enough to the man's that their breath became indistinguishable. His eyes seared into Aragorn's, melting away the last of the icy backdrop that held at bay the truth the man tried so desperately to hide, and Legolas witnessed it all. 

"You lie," he said, his voice almost a whisper he could barely hear over the rush of his heartbeat in his ears. 

Aragorn found himself incapable of protest at the mercy of the elf's fury. He managed to release his hand from his sword as the scabbard clattered against the stone behind him but did nothing with it. His breath caught in his throat as he felt Legolas's weight bearing into him, and as his friend spoke he lost complete control of the shield he'd placed between them. "Legolas..." he began, direly wishing for the elf to understand his intentions, but he found he could not speak. He fought a shiver as Legolas's hot breath swam over his mouth. 

Legolas allowed his eyes to linger a moment longer, tracing with them the angles of the ranger's face, watching the firelight dip and flow over the peaks of his brow and cheekbones and then delve into the valleys of his eyes and mouth. But it was only a moment, and then he crushed his lips against Aragorn's. The man did not pull away, but lifted both hands to the elf's face, cradling it just below his jaw and letting his fingers rest in the soft hair behind his ears. Aragorn allowed his eyes to slip closed and moaned softly, then pushed Legolas back just far enough to break the contact between them. He found the elf's eyes burning into his almost challengingly. 

"Legolas," the man said, finding himself with barely a breath. "Ú herio man ú teliach," he whispered, his lips gently brushing Legolas's as he spoke. 

The elf's smooth brow creased and his eyes sharpened. His gaze bore into Aragorn, unwavering, and the world was still -- even the torches seemed to quiet and the shadows ceased dancing. Legolas carefully released his bow and did not wince at the noise it made when it clattered lightly to the ground as he brought his free hand up to grasp the back of Aragorn's neck. He pressed his mouth to the man's again as fiercely as the first time, pulling him closer and twining his fingers in the dark curls of hair. This time he felt Aragorn respond, and Legolas flicked out his tongue to feel the lips beneath his part. A small groan escaped from the back of Aragorn's throat as their tongues intertwined, and Legolas savoured his exploration of the ranger's mouth. The kiss deepened, and the aggression behind it heightened, as if they were both long seeking answers that could be found there in that moment. Aragorn felt himself shake beneath the force Legolas threw forth, and he felt the blood pounding in his head as he fought to return the kiss with as much fervour. Their breath mingled and the ranger drank in Legolas's scent, of pine and wind and musky earth, feeling it imprint itself in his memory without effort. 

Legolas pressed himself more heavily against Aragorn, feeling the knot that had been consuming him for so many days incinerate, sending waves of heat outward from his stomach and down to his groin. He groaned softly, pressing his hips into the ranger as he bit down on the man's lower lip. Aragorn growled softy in response, curling his fingers in the elf's hair as the rush of blood in his ears drown out the sounds of the world. He dropped one arm to encircle Legolas's waist and pulled him closer, his heart feeling as though it might burst beneath his rib cage. 

When the kiss finally broke, the pair were breathing hard, the elf's hand crushed against Aragorn's chest, his slender fingers twisted in the man's hair. They watched each other, eyes half lidded, and Aragorn had his answer to the question he had barely asked. Legolas would see this through to the end, no matter what end might find them. 

"I do not know if I can accept what you offer," Aragorn said at last, his arm drawing the elf reflexively closer for fear he might recoil. But Legolas made no move, save for the slight widening of his eyes that glistened cobalt, insistent blue tides that served to batter at Aragorn's will. 

"And I can offer you no more than you can offer to me," Legolas replied softly as the torchlight flickered in the depths of dark pupils. The man found himself lacking the facilities to analyse the elf's words, so gave a nearly imperceptible nod. In response Legolas pressed his growing hardness into Aragorn, grinning faintly to find his arousal was matched before he leaned in and dragged his lips hungrily along the man's neck, scraping his teeth lightly over flesh salty with sweat and running his tongue down and across the ranger's collarbone. 

Aragorn loosened his hold on the elf long enough for Legolas to release the man's hair and free his trapped arm, dropping them both to take a hold of Aragorn's hips and force him closer. The ranger stifled a cry as a jolt of pleasure shot through him, threatening to unravel his senses. He held on, if only barely, and suddenly realised they were still in the corridor. With obvious effort he pushed Legolas back from him, trailing his fingers down the elf's throat before shooting dark glances to his left and right. Legolas seemed to glean understanding without words, and Aragorn found himself being pulled through a doorway to an empty room before he could object; although somewhere beneath the fire that slowly consumed him, he had doubts he would have, even if he'd had the chance. 

* * *

**Ú herio man ú teliach** -- 'Do not begin what you cannot finish.' 

* * *

**Author's notes continued...**

**AM:** Thank you very much! I had originally intended for about 10 chapters, but it may actually turn out to be more. I am so glad you are enjoying this :) 

**kaya:** I planned very little of this story out, and instead began it only with a general idea of what I wanted the characters to be exposed behind the scenes of the book. I do, however, try to map out an individual chapter before I start writing it. I only know vaguely how this will end myself! Bad habit to get into I'm sure. 

**The:** Thanks! I have a terrible habit of constructing extremely long (if grammatically correct) but I'm trying to keep that in check and I'm glad it seems to be working ;) 

**Calesta:** Many thanks; I am hoping to avoid as much mush and fluff as possible, as I just cannot see the characters acting that way, no matter what might happen. Thanks again! 


	7. Chapter Seven

**Author's Notes:**

Characters and the world of Arda copyright Tolkien and all that, no money being made, utmost respect for his works. 

I still feel terrible about losing that email. 

Remember, updates, cookies, other fandom related material can be found on my livejournal: livejournal.com/~strange_fate 

Again, thanks to you reviewers. I really appreciate any feedback!  
Responses to individual reviews at the bottom! 

This is not so much an introspection chapter as a progressive chapter. 

**Warnings: The first half of this chapter is a definite R. A very slashy R.**  
It isn't any worse than that Matrix Reloaded scene, or half a dozen others, but it is a strong R. 

Because of ff.net's rating restrictions I toned this down here (also because well, some people might want to read it without quite so much descriptiveness), but I have posted the full version here for those interested:  
livejournal.com/~strange_fate/4530.html 

**Chapter 7**

The door closed with a dull echo, or perhaps it was the thud of Aragorn's back against the oak as Legolas shoved the ranger up against it. The elf's hands had already pulled the man's undermost shirt free from his breeches and had begun roaming over Aragorn's flesh, soft fingers tracing every curve and cavity of muscle and skin. The ranger couldn't help letting slip a shuddering sigh, and Legolas leaned in to taste him, parting the man's willing lips with his tongue and delving into his mouth once again. Aragorn moaned, and Legolas pulled one hand free from beneath the man's shirt to tangle it in his dark locks, twirling the slick hair at the back of his head between his long fingers and running his thumb along the soft wisps in front of the ranger's ears. 

After a moment had passed, their fervour broke softly, and in their pause Legolas buried his face into Aragorn's shoulder. Their chests rose and fell rapidly in an even, heated rhythm and the elf let his arm snake around the man's waist, pulling him close in a fierce but restrained movement. With his brow still resting in the curve between Aragorn's neck and shoulder, pale fingers tangled starkly in strands almost black with moisture, he squeezed his eyes shut. Aragorn could not see his expression, but there was a new tension in the stretch of Legolas's shoulders, a way the elf's fingertips pressed just so into the warm skin of his back that kept the man from questioning it. 

Legolas felt the ranger's warm breath against his ear, and curled his fingers more tightly around Aragorn's hair. He tilted his head to the side, and Aragorn could feel his lips on his neck, softly moving as if burdened with the intent of speech. But no words came, and instead the elf's muscles suddenly tensed and his mouth fell hungrily against the man's skin. The arm around Aragorn's waist jerked him again suddenly forward, pressing their bodies together roughly. A surprised, but greedy groan escaped Aragorn, and he brought his hands between them, battle torn fingers grasping at strings and fumbling with knots. Legolas did not seem willing to allow any space to come between them, but as Aragorn leaned to run his tongue along the outer edge of the elf's ear, the shiver and accompanying gasp this earned allowed him just enough room to begin working free the ties he could reach. 

The elf conceded then, leaning back just enough to capture Aragorn beneath another kiss, tempered with less ferocity than the last. He set himself to the same task of deftly dispersing the lacework of Aragorn's clothing with the hand he freed from the man's hair. Even with one hand, Legolas's movements were immeasurably more nimble than those of the ranger, and in moments he had unpinned the cloak, which arced softly to the floor in a billowing pile, and was yanking upward on the fabrics and leather of the man's shirt and tunics. Movements driven by his building fever, Aragorn abandoned his attempts at undoing the elf's fastenings and allowed his arms to lift and the shirts to be dragged over his head in swift order, ignoring them as they were discarded on the floor. With heavy breath, Legolas ran his hands down the man's chest, his eyes dark though the torchlight burned brightly. 

There was a roar in Aragorn's ears as the two collided, mouths crashing into one another, teeth finding their marks on lips and skin, travelling along jawlines and down necks, and suddenly Legolas's chest was bare beneath his, though he could not recall whether he was responsible for this or not. Everything else slipped out of thought and time as skin clashed with ebullience against skin, and he felt, rather than heard, his belt and scabbard clatter to the floor behind him. The elf's scent filled his every breath, the taste of soft skin beneath the trail of his tongue flooded his senses and set him afire in some red haze beneath Legolas's touch. He grasped the elf's face between his hands, leaning in to kiss him with an intensity that threatened to consume Legolas. 

But the elf did not wither beneath the man's embrace, rather fought back with heightened fervour, crushing his swollen lips against Aragorn's with enough force to border on hostility, feeling the heat from his belly burning all the way through his fingertips as he grasped the back of the man's neck with one hand and somehow steered them both in the direction of the bed. In a tangle of limbs Aragorn found himself on his back atop the soft sheets, his eyes opening with a flash to capture Legolas's torrid gaze. The elf leaned back, straddling the man's legs and his arms moved behind him, swiftly removing the ranger's boots and tossing them with a distant thud to the stone below; Aragorn could do naught but stare at the way the light arced over the curve of the elf's chest and the percussive plain of ribs that swept into the plateau of his hard abdomen. 

Legolas's form was wreathed now in fire, the light from the torch behind him setting his pale skin alight, casting his silhouette into a flame edged darkness, and Aragorn's breath caught. But it was only a moment before he felt hands working at his breeches, and he found himself immediately assaulted by the room's cool air as they were removed, which was no match for the heat that must be coming in waves visible from his skin. His gasp was cut short as Legolas lowered himself on top of him in a brusque motion, and Aragorn wrapped his arms around the elf, pulling him into a tight embrace. He could feel Legolas removing his own boots and moaned as the elf pressed his still clothed length into his. With a soft growl he threw his shoulder forward and reversed their positions, rolling the elf onto his back as he snaked one hand down toward the fastenings of the elf's leggings. 

Legolas narrowed his eyes to find himself beneath the man, but he did not protest Aragorn's advances. The ranger's other hand supported the elf's neck, and he let his fingers become lost in the long, pale hair as he pulled the leggings down until he could hook one foot over them and finish their removal. The fire's light spilled over them as Aragorn trailed devouring kisses down the elf's torso, letting his free hand trace patterns of impossible intricacy over the smooth skin of Legolas's inner thigh. The elf shivered beneath him, burying his hands in the ranger's hair as the man's mouth moved down past his navel, pausing there only to trace in lazy circles before he felt teeth against his skin. Legolas could not help the arch of his back and the sharpening angle of his knees, but Aragorn suddenly stopped, lifting his head and letting his eyes burn as black coals into the shining indigo of Legolas's. 

The elf's brow faltered despite his rapid breath, and Aragorn swallowed thickly as he forced his gaze to hold. "May I...?" the man asked, his voice sharp along the edges with desire but soft enough the elf thought no mortal could ever have heard it. 

"Must you ask?" Legolas inquired, his voice a dim tide that threatened to submerge Aragorn, the torch reflecting brightly over a darker glint in his eye. 

The ranger did naught but nod once, his expression as intense as the elf had ever seen, as if it could set to real flame the ridges of light that the torch set to washing across their bodies. Of course, Legolas thought. Aragorn would never take if it were in his power to ask: and so he was. The elf nearly smiled at this, but his mouth remained set in a smooth line, his brow straightening, and he returned Aragorn's nod in kind, leaning heavily on his elbows. 

"Always," Legolas whispered, feeling his heart thrum up in his chest as it never before had, believing for a moment this admission was too much, seeing a light waver in the man's eyes though the fire was at his back. But he was given no time to think, for he felt Aragorn's hand disappear from behind his neck and the man's mouth was on him. His head fell back and a sound rumbled deep within his throat at Aragorn's touch, his breath turning ragged and uneven and his heart, already feeling as though it might leap from his breast, finding an impossibly quick rhythm beneath his ribs. 

The arch of his spine became stronger and he could see flames beneath the dark of his closed lids. The edges smouldered and began to burn blue and white, and he gasped, leaning down to take hold of Aragorn's shoulders and pull him up. He met the question in the man's eyes with a kiss, and Aragorn found himself forgetting whatever words might have been ready to tumble from behind his lips. In a move reminiscent of what the man had done, Legolas forced Aragorn up and to the side, and there was nothing the ranger could do before he found himself pinned to the mattress beneath the attention's of the elf's tongue. Aragorn hadn't even time to glare at Legolas before the elf had taken him in hand, and his eyes rolled shut, a sharp sigh forcing its way through the caverns of his gritted teeth. 

It was all the ranger could do not to writhe, and he wound one hand into Legolas's hair while the other gripped the sheets tightly enough to dislodge them from one corner of the mattress. Even these mild attentions threatened to send him hurtling over the edge. Light sparked along the periphery of his vision when suddenly Legolas had disappeared, and Aragorn caught a cry in his throat at the loss of the elf's searing contact. He fought to catch his breath as he pushed himself up on his elbows, casting a searching gaze into the room. But almost before he did this, the elf had reappeared and pushed him firmly downward, crawling to straddle him again. Aragorn ran his hands up the length of the elf's back, tracing the undulations of his spine with his fingertips, trailing them up and over the ridge at the base of Legolas's neck, shifting direction and tracing the elf's soft jawline. Legolas sighed and leaned forward, rocking against the ranger and causing the man to press his back flat against the mattress. The elf took immediate advantage of this, moving his mouth to encircle a pink nipple, tracing the delicate skin with the tip of his tongue. Aragorn grunted, attempting to lift his torso, but Legolas moved a hand to his shoulder and held him easily in place. 

The elf straightened, and the man looked up at him, letting his eyes flow along the bright shadow traced lines of sinew before finally falling into the shadowed depths of Legolas's face. The elf waited, watching, letting the moments slip by quietly before he finally lowered himself again, bringing his lips close enough to brush over Aragorn's. His eyes remained open, and he made no other move than to watch the man carefully. At last, he produced something from his palm, a small vial, and placed it in the man's hand without looking away. Aragorn closed his fingers about the glass, feeling the stopper beneath his thumb. 

The man reached up with his empty hand to pull Legolas down to him, and their tongues met again. The friction between them drew a moan from them both, their voices commingling in the depths of the kiss, hands losing themselves again over hard muscle and slick skin. In the midst of inseparable breath and the coarse scent of sweat, Legolas whispered in Aragorn's ear, his lips teasing the sweeping curves of the rounded flesh. "May I?" The elf rolled the man's words back at him, though his voice fluted with a low undercurrent that held no thread of sarcasm. 

For a moment the only motion was the battering of their chests, the only sound the rush of their breath coming fast and hard above the faint crackle of the torch high upon the wall. Legolas slowly began to push himself up but was halted as Aragorn dug the fingers of one hand into the small of his back. Suddenly the elf felt oil being slicked over him and his eyes unfocused before he exhaled a soft, short breath. His throat worked soundlessly as he tried to swallow, but Aragorn claimed his mouth, teeth biting into his lower lip and causing him to cry out softly. But he tasted no blood, and he let his lids slip open as they broke apart. 

Aragorn's eyes flared like smoke in the dim light, and Legolas manoeuvered slowly, reaching deep within himself for the patience his millennia warranted. In a measured rush, time lost all meaning, the beginnings and endings of flesh and bone ceased to exist as they moved, man and elf finding themselves unable to decipher any differences in the sweat that coated their skin, the hair that fell in waves over their faces, the lips that found each other again and again between trails laid over bare neck and exposed ear. Aragorn's back curved sharply, nearly mirroring the angle of his knees and at last he buried his face in Legolas's neck and cried softly, the elf's name slipping past his lips in a heated harmony. Legolas sighed roughly, his fists tangling in the bed sheets as their congruent motion ceased all at once and shadows danced in the sharp release of tensed muscles and rigid joints. 

"Estel --" the elf whispered against the man's ear as they fell slack to the mattress, limbs still tangled and hands still searching, grasping, holding. Lips found the ridges of cheeks and the soft lines of brows and the tender curve of closed lids; sheets tangled around damp legs. 

At last they stilled, breathing slowing, hands finding comfortable places in the crooks of angled hips. Face to face they lay, close enough to feel the sweet movements of breath that escaped each of them. The air grew cold around their shoulders, though they knew not how long they lay by the dull glow of firelight, watching the shadows rage softly over each other's faces. Legolas reached to brush an errant strand of slick hair from Aragorn's cheek when a voice drifted in from the hall. 

"They should be 'round soon, as it's well past midday and it's Aragorn that said I'd this much time ta rest. He knows well enough we're leavin', I reckon." It was Gimli, and the dwarf spoke quite loudly as he stood, apparently, directly beyond the door. Legolas's hand froze on the man's cheek and his eyes widened slightly. He bolted up in the bed, leaping nimbly over Aragorn's still prone form as he reached for his clothes. 

"Legolas?" Aragorn inquired slowly, finding reason enough to extricate himself from the comfort of the bed at what seemed to be an alert from their friend, but he was uncertain of the reason for such haste as was shown by the elf. 

Pulling on his leggings, Legolas looked over his shoulder at Aragorn. "My weapons," he said, jerking his chin toward the door. He reached for his shirts and began pulling them over his head. The ranger thought he saw a flush creep into the elf's skin, but he shook his head, not knowing if it was a trick of the light, or perhaps a remainder of their encounter. In all his long years he had never seen an elf blush, and Aragorn told himself it was Legolas's disappointment at his own mistake rather than anything he would have need to take up with himself. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, the ranger used a foot to pull his breeches closer and slipped them on. He stood to tie them, as Legolas finished dressing and moved toward the door; with one hand holding the fabric up, the ranger closed the distance between them and drew the elf back with a hand on Legolas's soft over tunic. 

"Aragorn --" the elf said, but was abruptly cut off by a kiss that belied the tenderness of the last moments, and reminded them each smartly of their bruised lips. Aragorn's eyes gleamed when he released Legolas, but he nodded toward the door. "Hairy man," the elf said as one corner of his mouth quirked upward, and Aragorn watched him disappear into the hall. 

Slowly, the man tied the fastenings of his trousers, ignoring the cold of the floor biting into his feet. He gathered to him his shirts, and untangled them from each other before redressing much less gracefully than had Legolas; the elf had seemed to slip back into his gear in a single, smooth motion. Aragorn stood for a long minute, looking down at his belt and the scabbard with it, eyeing his sword from a distance. With a hitch in his chest that he chased away with a closed hand, he retrieved it and fastened it around his waist before finally pulling on his boots, his eyes unaware of his own actions. 

When he finally stepped out into the corridor, the voice that met him came from sufficiently lower a height than he'd expected, and was of undeniably lower timbre. 

"Ah! There y'are!" the dwarf said, striding forward to elbow Aragorn in the ribs. The man couldn't hold back a choking cough, and Gimli arched a brow at him. "Gandalf was lookin' for yeh," he continued, still watching the ranger carefully. Aragorn eyed the flagstone by the door, noting the quiver and bow had disappeared, and as well the dwarf's use of the past tense. 

"The elf's already gone with 'im to get the horses ready." The dwarf shook his head as he spoke, then started off down the corridor. "I should think we'll be leavin' as soon as yeh're ready." 

Aragorn muttered something indistinguishable beneath his breath and stepped heavily to catch up with the dwarf. "I'm ready, Master Dwarf" he said, his voice rough around the edges, but steady. He glanced down at Gimli, who was half looking up at him with what could be described only as a grin set in his beard. The ranger barely managed not to glower as he placed a hand on his sword-hilt, slowing his pace so Gimli did not have to walk too swiftly to keep up. 

"I know," came his friend's reply, laden with more comprehension than the ranger wished to admit, and Aragorn found he had no response. So instead of speaking, he set his jaw and accepted the trepid silence between them as they set their hurried path out of the Hornburg and to the courtyards beyond. 

The horses were milling about quietly when Aragorn and Gimli reached the company of men that would set off along the road to Isengard. Théoden had seen to the burial of his well loved captain, Háma, casting the first earth upon his grave before it was filled in with an oath to well remember the hand behind the foul deeds thrust upon them of late. The sun was beginning to sink in the western sky, tarnishing the cloud edges and lending a dark hue to the figures of distant birds. Legolas approached his friends with two familiar horses at his heels, and he handed a set of reins to Aragorn, his fingers brushing across the ranger's palm as he released the leather. The man took Hasufel's reins in hand and dipped his head graciously to the elf, whose eyes glistened indigo when his lips twisted gently in what was nearly a smirk before he turned away. 

"Gimli!" the elf called, and his short friend appeared from around the side of another horse, looking askance at the beasts surrounding him. He appeared rather relieved at Legolas's call. "You shall not be troubled with the burden of borrowing a mount, my friend," Legolas said as soon as Gimli had stopped by his side. "You will ride with me, and our old friend Arod." The remaining tension, or much of it at the very least, drained from the dwarf's face, and he nodded happily. 

"Wonderful!" he growled with a chuckle. "I even thought for a moment I might have to ride with Gandalf," he added, turning cautiously in the direction of the wizard, who sat ready on the back of Shadowfax. Aragorn could not help but laugh softly at this as he approached the side of his great grey horse and swung himself into the saddle. 

He watched Legolas mount his own steed and reach a hand down to Gimli. "Shadowfax might have had more to say about that than Gandalf," the ranger said, looking from the dwarf to the great stallion atop which the wizard sat. "You have a contempt for many things, my friend, which you forget might hold as much dislike for you." He flashed a grin at the scowling dwarf and spun his horse in the direction to which the men had taken. 

The wisps of cloud above became amber red tendrils as the sun made good its threat to sink behind the distant hills. They set their course down the road from Helm's Deep and toward the forest that had in such a strange, yet timely manner appeared on their doorstep. The Riders of Rohan halted, remembering well the trees' role in the ending of the battle, overcome by a fear of the shadowed wood beyond. But Gandalf rode forward without concern, and at last where the road from the Hornburg had seemed to disappear into the trees, a great archway of bent bough and arched limb became apparent. The wizard disappeared into the dark beneath the canopy, strands of light dappling Shadowfax's coat, and the party at last followed. The road, they found, was not veiled by root or twig, and in fact ran clearly alongside the Deeping Stream, and the forest's ceiling had opened up above them, letting in the russet tones of sunset and casting everything beneath a red gold veil. 

The forest groaned around them, distant cries of aching trunks and murmurs without words, but there were no Orcs to be seen. Nay, neither did the men catch sight nor hear sound of any other living creature outside their company. Legolas felt more than anyone the throbbing mutiny pulsing within the surrounding wood, but he thought it was not aimed at them. The trees were from too distant a land to know the likes of men and elves, or dwarves, and it was at the Orcs their anger was directed. He wished he might stop a while and listen, hear out the voices of the forest and absorb their stories, but Gimli adamantly refused, threatening to continue on foot should the elf deem it necessary to stop; he seemed prepared to beg Legolas not to fall behind the company. He thought the trees spoke otherwise, of crushing and destroying any on two legs who ventured too near. 

The elf shook his head but dallied not, keeping alongside Gandalf as he and Gimli spoke of the Glittering Caves, and made a pact to return there together should they survive the days of war to come. The dwarf even agreed to travel to Fangorn along the way, and Legolas could not help but smile at this. Gandalf counted between their party and Isengard some fifteen leagues, but said they would not cover it all that night, and at last they passed through the other edge of the wood, reaching the bottom of the Coomb. Here the road branched, going in one direction to Edoras, and on a more northerly course to the Fords of Isen. 

Gimli was once again caught in a frightful situation at the appearance of eyes in the trees, when Legolas thought he might ride back to the wood and see to what they might belong. To his relief, Gandalf bade him hold, and the elf acquiesced, remaining with the party as the Ents that made themselves known called to others in the distance with hollow, reverberating cries. At length they again disappeared into the forest without even a glance at the small group of riders at their feet. 

The road north took them past the slain Rohirrim that had fought in the battles upon these banks, and Gandalf dropped back a short way to speak with Théoden of his encounters with the surviving men here. 

As they crossed the river, Gimli nudged Legolas, the spray and chatter of water churned up by the horses' legs keeping his voice from drifting far. "You seem in better spirits, laddie," he said with a wry tone, smiling widely behind the elf's back and momentarily forgetting that his friend had been ready to charge him in that cursed forest without a second thought. 

The elf's voice sounded as if it belonged to the flow of the river as it drifted back over his shoulder. "And you seem ever full of surprises, my friend. Your words this day do not cease to amaze me." Legolas did not answer the unspoken question directly, but the dwarf knew he referred to more than his earlier banter about the beauty of dwarven caves. The elf guided Arod up the bank at a trot that sent Gimli scurrying for a better grip to avoid falling off. 

"Then you have settled your quarrel," he said after a short fit of incredulous coughing and not a few curses, his voice approving once he chose not to comment on the elf's control of the horse. 

His light expression turned downward as the moments passed and Legolas did not respond. At length he was tempted to speak again, but finally an answer reached him. "Aye," came the subdued voice, and the steed's pace steadied. Legolas left it at that, though his gaze dropped from the landscape to find a more appealing spot in the wisps of mane above his hands. They had settled things between them, but that did not mean they would remain so, and Legolas was not foolish enough to believe their journey forward would be absent of conflict, no matter what the course. 

The elf's attention was recaptured as the company picked up their pace, heading swiftly now in the dimming light from the banks of the Isen and all were glad to leave the mournful shores behind them. He and Gimli rode in silence through the fading of the sun and the arrival of the stars. Gimli, looking up at the vault above that so reminded him of the Aglarond, was brought suddenly to the realisation he had not heard the elf sing since before their arrival in Edoras. This greatly weighted his heart and brought a frown to his face, for the dwarf wished above many things for the happiness of his friends. In a war that had just seen its beginnings, their hearts seemed to drown amidst so many other burdens. He sighed roughly to himself; perhaps it was but time they required. 

The company halted within the reach of the Misty Mountains, its peaks stretching as arms into the night sky, so dark only the distant snow peaks were visible beneath the gentle light of the moon that had just passed behind them. The shimmering of the stars was muted by a great rising of mist, or perhaps smoke, coming up from the Wizard's Vale and working its tendrils deep into the field overhead. It seemed as if the land was burning. Midnight had not long passed and the King was weary; the camp was set up quickly, allowing only the luxury of basic tents for some, but for the most part the men relented to sleeping in the open. Gimli unrolled his blankets near the pickets to which they left the horses tied, though not too near: he wished not to think what the foul beasts might do while he slept. 

Legolas had long since disappeared by the time Gimli had turned over on his bedroll. The dwarf listened to the burble and rush of the river Isen so nearby, and clutched in one hand his long handled axe, still ill at ease though the forest was now at least five leagues behind them. As he settled in he heaved a great sigh and looked out into the night, watching the shifting shapes of the horses and the occasional passing of one of the Rohirrim soldiers. For a long while he lay, trying to clear his mind of thought, to find sleep beneath the unusually warm valley air, but it was not allowing itself to be found. Instead he caught himself chewing his lip and mulling over his thick-skulled companions. Quite the pair; he knew little of love himself, save for the breath that had been forever stolen by the fairest Lady Galadriel, but even such a glimpse as that made his heart sing. Surely -- surely they deserved as much, if not more. A frown settled on his face, and he resigned himself to witnessing the passing of the night. 

From behind a single tree the elf heard the man approach. No matter how silent Aragorn might be to his own kind, Legolas could always hear him coming. But he let the man approach without turning, instead choosing to look back to the south, toward the now distant Hornburg and the nigh invisible peaks of the White Mountains until at last he felt a hand on his shoulder. 

Turning, Legolas locked his eyes, reflections of the starry night above, with Aragorn's, allowing a curious lilt to his brow as he watched the ranger coolly. Aragorn let his hand linger, just out of sight of the encampment -- sight, but not sound. The low whickering sounds and soft hoof-thuds of steeds still reached their ears, and Aragorn stepped forward as he moved his hand from the elf's shoulder to gently graze a smooth cheek. Legolas's skin seemed to glow beneath the stars, and he found himself entranced. His focus was regained as a hand lightly curled around his wrist, gently pulling his arm away, but not releasing it. Still, the elf said nothing. 

At last, Aragorn spoke. "You departed with such haste before ..." He brought his other hand to rest on the elf's hip and pulled Legolas closer. 

With an unbidden smirk, the elf stepped back a fraction, catching the fingers clasping his hip with his other hand. "My, we are vain," he countered, cocking one brow just so. "So confident this must have something to do with you?" 

Aragorn's eyes narrowed with a friendly apprehension. "Then I am mistaken," he offered with a marginal dip of his head. "It must, then, have had something to with abandoning your weapons to the evils of whatever might have lurked in the corridor." It was the ranger's turn to arch a brow, as he knew he'd hit a sore spot. Indeed, the elf's eyes flashed and the grip on his wrist tightened until he could feel each individual finger against his skin. He lost the ability to swallow. 

The elf chose to ignore this remark, but the mood grew more serious without any urging on his part. After a few moments had passed, Legolas loosened his grip on the ranger's wrist and stepped close to him, brushing his lips across Aragorn's. "I know the reasons this must remain quiet," he said softly, speaking through the sharp ache that hit him just off centre within his chest. 

Aragorn mustered up what will the exhausting day let remain within him and prevented himself from encircling Legolas in with his arms and crushing his mouth to the elf's. Instead his throat convulsed slightly as he forcefully swallowed, regarding the distant air in his friend's gaze. "Legolas," his voice was naught but a whisper that sounded as if it had been dragged through the battle of the Fords along with the fallen men they had earlier left behind. "My heart walks with you," he said at last, his brow darkening thoughtfully as he lifted a hand to trace a thumb along one of the elf's lips. 

The sounds of the camp were all that hung between them for some time, but the elf did reply. "And mine with you." _But it must remain mine_. Legolas gave no voice to his final thought, though his eyes stirred with mixed emotions. He forced aside everything but the man standing before him and without warning Aragorn found his mouth opening beneath the elf's, his tongue chasing the curling motion of Legolas's. The ranger closed his eyes, but by then the elf was gone, having disappeared into the night. Aragorn set a flat palm against his abdomen, breathing the night deeply beneath the watch of the stars. It was a long time before he moved, and it was not to seek sleep; he knew he would never find it this night. 

On the other side of the camp, Gimli heard a familiar melody reach his ears, a fluting lilt of a song sung to the stars above. He smiled, thinking for certain that one by one they seemed to sparkle more brightly above him, and at last a swift slumber overtook him. 

* * *

**Kel**: Thank you, very much -- I am trying hard to keep them as IC as possible although it becomes quite difficult on this level since there is little to no basis to go on when it comes to behaviour within relationships. Pulling out my hair at times.. :) 

**silvertoekee**: I do have a tendency to construct aggravatingly long sentences; I blame my English teachers for this. But will try too keep them from getting too warped! And thank you, I am glad you're enjoying it. 

**AM**: Thank you :) I appreciate Tolkien's imagery so much, I hope mine is even a fraction as good as his. 

**Gwyn**: I appreciate that very much; I'm trying very hard with the characterisation, it's proving to be more and more difficult though! 

**kaya**: Thanks :) I am trying not to let this thing drag me out into the next century, as it gets more difficult! 

**The**: That's the kind of reaction I was hoping for! Thank you for that wonderful compliment :) 

**littlegreenleaf**: You have no idea how happy that makes me! :) And no, I find I am having to now write two chapter versions for those scenes that just need to go beyond that R rating. Thankfully that's what livejournal is for! 


	8. Chapter Eight

**Author's Notes:**

Characters and the world of Arda copyright Tolkien and all that, no money being made, utmost respect for his works. 

Remember, updates, cookies, alternate versions, other fandom related material can be seen on LJ (URL in profile) 

Feedback is always very much appreciated. :)  
Again, responses to individual reviews at the end! 

**Warnings: R rating. Slash. You know the drill :)**  
Hey, If Jerry MacGuire was an R... this is practically a PG13... 

Like chapter 7, the original NC17 rated version can be read on LJ:  
livejournal.com/~strange_fate/7915.html 

**Chapter 8**

Gimli woke to the nervous chatter of men and a great rumbling crescendo arising from the south. Axe in hand, the dwarf jolted upright, kicking aside his bedroll in his haste. His fingers opened and closed tightly over the wrapped axe handle, the leather of his gloves creaking faintly, and he narrowed his eyes in an attempt to scour the darkness for the source of the men's outcries. The moonless night was like tar above them despite the pinpoints of stars, but somehow a visible smear of what might have been dark fog became visible: a groaning, shuddering mass sliding blackly over the landscape. 

Panic was nearly tangible on the air as the company watched the darkness creep past them on either side of the river Isen, and the sounds of weapons being pulled to the ready sliced through the thick air. Gandalf directly bade them hold, assuring them that it would pay them no attention so long as they made no move. With uncertainty gnawing at their gut, the host of men lowered their arms and waited, cringing beneath the mystery of rumbling whispers, and at last, the mass passed them by and disappeared into the north. 

Only Legolas seemed unaffected as they witnessed the trees of Fangorn retreat into the arms of their mountain, and the elf stood, not too far from Gimli, watching with a mysterious smile. The dwarf scowled after the disappearing forest, grumbling to himself without forming entirely coherent words. When he looked toward Legolas, he grunted disapprovingly before letting the butt of his axe fall against the earth. 

"An' jus' what're you smilin' at?" Gimli asked with a halfhearted glare, squaring his stance and setting his jaw. 

"They mentioned something about eating dwarves," the elf replied smoothly, accompanying his words with an absent wave of his hand. He leapt atop a nearby boulder whose edge dipped into the weak wash of the river, folding his legs under him as he sat, watching the stars roll over the water. "I was waiting for them to notice you, thenon." 

Gimli neatly avoided spluttering, but he still managed to look quite aggrieved, and the elf's keen eyes thought they saw the skin redden visibly in the midst of his long hair and beard. The dwarf tossed his axe to the ground near his wayward blankets, gently by his standards, and crossed his arms. Truly, he was more appalled at the thought of those wretched plants being anywhere near him than Legolas's comment, but he did recognise bait when he saw, or rather heard, it. "If yeh're attempting ta get me ta back out of my promise, Master Elf," he said with a growl, "you'll 'ave ta do better than that." His brows drew downward so far they nearly hid his eyes; he may despair of the dark forest, but he was not about to back down. He would never hear the end of it. 

With a soft laugh, Legolas shook his head, not deigning to otherwise respond. Instead, he merely rolled his shoulders and looked back to the river, the sound of his voice rising up once again into the night, and leaving Gimli without further recourse. The dwarf mumbled quietly and leaned to rearrange his bedroll, shaking free some of the dirt he'd kicked onto it. As he lowered himself to the ground, a hushed breath rose from the earth, and he paused, again ready to grab his axe. The men, too, rediscovered their restlessness, but none made a move in the wake of Gandalf's previous advice. 

At length, the sigh turned to a rush and the waters of the Isen tumbled over the rocks of the river bed, rushing between the banks and filling the air with an insistent burbling as its flow returned with a deep familiarity. Gimli aimed an arched brow in Legolas's direction, briefly wondering if the elf had had anything to do with that, but he merely shook his head as he settled back onto the blankets. He was uncertain whether he would find sleep again that night, and from the waking sounds of the camp, it appeared the king's men felt the same. The dwarf hurled a heavy breath and pulled one blanket over himself; with the rise of the river the air had cooled slightly, and the wind bore just enough of an edge that he had begun to feel cold. He let the elf's song slowly lull him into near slumber, remaining half alert with the night's recent events dancing so freshly in his mind. 

Legolas remained on the outcropping, watching the river pass him by, and so seeing the world reflected within its depths. As he so often could of late, he felt the fingers of Shadows tightening across his skin. He ran his hands over his arms as if such a simple gesture might brush them away, but it was to no avail. Nearly shaking his head in an effort to shed the dark cloak from his mind, he found his thoughts wandering to the previous morning. 

He was distraught to find his heart could at once feel so light and yet so weighted. He had known from the start this was a betrayal, to allow himself to succumb to the warm embrace of that for which he had yearned for so many years. Yet it was also a treachery, to his own heart, to walk away, and he was starkly aware that it had become now a question of which betrayal might be worse. And yet, there was more to come which could lend sway to either side. With an inaudible sigh, Legolas wrapped his arms around his knees and let his mind slip away to more distant times in his homeland, spinning soft chords off into the night as he patiently awaited the arrival of the sun. His voice trailed off as nearby words met his ears. 

"Lind lín matha faer nín, meldir," they said, their voice rivalling the softness of the rolling water. The elf's back straightened, and he glanced over his shoulder. He rested his palms flat against the cool rock beneath him as he eyed Aragorn. The ranger stepped closer, but did not scale the now half drowned rock; his boots were now and again splashed by the current, but he paid the attentions of the river no heed. 

The elf watched the man for a long time before turning back to the water. "Does it?" Legolas asked, the corners of his mouth upturned just enough to draw Aragorn's attention, and the man watched the faint reflection of distant stars upon the elf's lips. 

"Always," came the reply, with a dip of the ranger's head before he looked again to the river. "What does it tell you?" Aragorn asked after a few short moments, folding his hands in front of him to keep them silent. 

Legolas's voice was muted, almost distant, and when Aragorn turned to him again, the elf was looking off to the north. "It speaks of change," Legolas said at last, eyes unblinking. "I think we will not come upon quite what we expect in the coming days." His eyes shifted to lock with Aragorn's and the ranger blinked softly before tearing his gaze away. 

Gimli cleared his throat, though the sound was garbled and seemingly unintentional, but it caused the pair to turn their heads nonetheless. Nimbly, the elf jumped down from the rock without a sound, his hand taking Aragorn's just lightly enough that he allowed the ranger's fingers to slip through his as he walked away. 

"Sedho vae," the elf whispered as he passed Gimli and leaned down to pat the dwarf's shoulder gently before continuing on. Aragorn followed, unable to prevent a smile as their friend offered a sleep laden grumble in response but did not open his eyes. The elf followed the river for a short distance, pausing at last at the edge of a small pool where the currents caught themselves up within some stoic rocks and the roots of a lone, twisted tree, twirling within their grasp a handful of broken twigs and leaves. 

The ranger's steps slowed as Legolas stopped by the water, and for long minutes there was no sound save the sweet rush of the Isen between its banks. Aragorn thought the river sounded almost happy to no longer be such a meager shadow of itself. The sky was still dark, dawn seeming an eternity away, though to the elf's eyes it appeared only an hour or so in coming. The company was far enough behind them to be well out of sight. The movement was invisible in its shadowed swiftness, but suddenly Aragorn found himself being pulled by the front of his shirt, the toes of his boots scraping over damp stone as he nearly lost his balance. He quickly felt his back pressed up against the sharp undulation of tree bark. 

Legolas pushed the ranger up against the tree, his hand fisted tightly in the fabric of the man's shirt as he closed the distance between them. His eyes flashed dangerously, and Aragorn was not sure if it was anger or something else, perhaps the faint light on the water, that glinted off the indigo depths. He found himself without a chance to decipher the elf's glare as Legolas claimed his lips, one hand moving behind the ranger's head to cradle it from the rough trunk of the old tree and tangle in his hair. This kiss was slow, no less fevered than any other they had shared, but its depth was more restrained. Aragorn yielded without complaint, slipping his tongue out to gently part the elf's lips, relishing Legolas's taste as the elf easily complied. He revelled in the scent of thyme and sweet moss as their tongues entwined in indulgent caresses. 

The ranger felt swift fingers dispelling the knot work of his shirt, but as soon as his chest was exposed, Legolas stilled. The elf pulled back just far enough that Aragorn could feel his breath on his lips, running his hand over the ranger's chest. He let his palm come to rest within the shallow in the middle, feeling the heat seep into his already warm fingers with each thrum of the heart that beat beneath. Aragorn held still, save for his fingers, which were busy curling and uncurling in the soft cloth of the over tunic near the elf's waist. He shifted slightly at the growing tightness in his breeches, but Legolas appeared to pay this no mind as he held the man's gaze. Aragorn's throat clenched slightly, but he didn't look away. 

The skin around Legolas's eyes tightened ever so visibly, crinkling just at the corners, though it was not a narrowing of the eyes so much as a reaction to the flood of words that had begun to well up in his chest. His eyes searched Aragorn's with an intensity the ranger had seen but once or twice from anyone in his long years, and the elf's previous words came back to him. The coming days would indeed prove difficult in their quandary, especially in light of much more pressing troubles. The man flicked his tongue over his lips and his shoulders sagged slightly before he reached up to smooth a barely errant lock of hair from Legolas's cheek. 

"You know what this is," Legolas said at last, his voice fluting as if carried upon the water itself. His fingertips brushed against the skin just below the ranger's collarbone. 

Aragorn's head tilted in a minute motion, but it was only a moment before he understood. Of course he knew; his familiarity with elven custom left no room for denial. A gust of hot air kicked up from the east, rustling the grass and carrying to them the distant cry of a hunting night bird: the first sound of a wild creature he had heard in days. The wind seemed to cut straight through his breast, and he felt Legolas start quietly, as if the elf could feel the fire that seemed to feed on the breeze. The ranger drew a sharp breath and placed a rough hand over the elf's fingers. He had forgotten how long he'd folded pieces of himself away, left them smouldering just beyond reach, and for days beneath the last moon he had more than once thought he might be going mad. He'd felt a change beneath his skin that seemed to him unwholesome and damnatory, until alongside his waning control he'd seen a remarkably familiar light in Legolas's eyes, a reflection of something deep within himself. Thus, Aragorn had slowly begun to realise it was not the foul whispers on the wind, nor the invisible fingers of shadows, strange though they might twist one's actions, that might be laid to blame. 

"And it would rest as close to my heart as yours," the ranger said with a burr in his voice, lifting his other hand to place it behind the elf's neck and trace the soft patterns of hair there. Legolas's eyes flicked back and forth between the storm clouds so close to him. "You question your decision." Aragorn's voice deepened beneath the stated question, but the edge was carried away on the wind. His fingers stilled. 

Legolas did naught but shake his head faintly, letting a long moment of silence stretch between them. "What of her?" 

The ranger took a rushed breath and nearly looked away. But his eyes held fast. He had expected such a question, since even before the previous afternoon. "Legolas," began Aragorn, his voice barely above a whisper but seeming to echo the strength of the Isen. "I have learned more of love in these past days, nay, in times longer still, than I ever have sought. I shall not boast falsely that she means little to me, for she means a great deal, and will always hold a part of my heart I have no desire to deny her." He was not certain what response he might receive, but the elf's expression did not change, and his eyes did not falter. "But I have found that you, as well, hold a part larger than I can say, my friend who knows me like no other. Orthach 'uren ir tirich enni, meleth nín." 

His grip tightened on the back of Legolas's neck, and he pulled the elf nearly close enough to kiss. But instead he took his hand from Legolas's and placed his fingers gently against the elf's mouth. "It was my intent to let things pass, alone and untouched, in the hopes that my heart would forget itself should we survive the days ahead. Yes, Legolas, I know just what this is, to you, as it would be to me. Though I oft worry that no matter how closely I might hold it to honour, it is not quite enough. I fear I am torn, between rejoice and despair, for knowing such a thing fulfilled." His eyes darkened, and at last he looked away with lids drawn down and brow furrowed as his fingers slipped from the elf's lips. In truth, he knew of no bond that might be stronger, no matter the intent of the Valar. 

Legolas smirked faintly, more the barest of upward motions by one corner of his mouth, as the ranger's words trailed off into the fading night: Elessar, calling into question the honour behind his intentions. As the man's hand slipped away, he caught it gently within his own. "Honour is so fickle a thing, Aragorn. Perhaps there is little honour to be found in this," Legolas said, pressing his thumb lightly into Aragorn's palm. "Rather, perhaps there is much." His gaze was met with a flash of grey from the ranger's eyes. 

"Estel," came the elf's voice again as he took a moment to nip one of the man's fingers. "Will we be forever held beneath the uncertainty of this honour you call into question, or shall we choose to rejoice for the time we are able?" His tongue flicked out smoothly across a fingertip, and Aragorn drew a sharp breath, twisting the fingers of his other hand into the elf's pale hair. Legolas pushed aside the heaviness entangling his heart for now, though it took a great effort at first. The world may pass in the blink of an eye, and he wished to keep his own eyes open. 

Aragorn grunted as Legolas pushed him more strongly against the trunk of the tree, losing all account of whatever answer he may have been prepared to provide. He traced the elf's lips with his fingers before tilting his head forward and taking Legolas's mouth beneath his own. The kiss was like fire, lips searing against each other without restraint, tongues seeking one other beneath mingled, heated breath. Aragorn felt the elf's hand trail down his chest and made a small sound of protest as suddenly it disappeared. His eyes slipped open briefly before he moaned; fingers had reappeared just above his belt, which they set about moving before sliding into the thick cloth of his breeches, dangerously close to his swiftly returning hardness. 

Legolas moved his lips to Aragorn's neck, biting the tender flesh there lightly before tracing the valley behind the man's jaw with his tongue. He shifted his hips against the ranger's, his hand still caught between them, and elicited another groan. Aragorn's eyes had slipped closed again, and Legolas once again claimed the man's mouth as he eased his hand around Aragorn. A moan reverberated through the man's throat and was caught in the depths of Legolas's mouth, muffled beneath a slow, deep kiss. The elf began a deliberate rhythm, and soon Aragorn's breathing had become ragged, and he moved his hands to grip the elf's shoulders. The man could see Legolas's eyes gleaming almost black blue just as he threw his head back, oblivious to the force with which it hit the jagged bark behind him. 

"Legolas, I cannot -- Oh..." He grunted, his entire body going rigid as he swore he saw the sun break over the hills in the distance with a violent intensity. Shivering, he worked to catch his breath, but when he opened his eyes it was still dark; the stars had only just begun to recede into a sky slowly paling to a deep blue. Legolas had already produced a rag, though the ranger cared not just yet to ask from where. Whatever surprise he felt at the elf's preparation was quickly forgotten as he pulled Legolas to him, cupping the elf's jaws with soft hands as he kissed him. Hands travelled down the smooth skin of Legolas's neck and began playing at the fastenings of his tunic. 

While the elf did not pull away, Aragorn became aware of movements around his waist, and he broke the kiss to glance down. Legolas had already retied his breeches and lifted his hands to the man's questioning face, running his thumb along a dirty cheekbone. 

"It is dawn," the elf said, and as the words tumbled from his lips the faintest orange light appeared on the horizon. The man looked at Legolas sceptically, and with more than a little longing burnishing his grey blue eyes, but even from there they could begin to hear the dimmed, telltale sounds of the company packing up their mounts and gathering for departure. 

"Dawn," the ranger said with greatly exaggerated contempt before pulling the elf to him roughly for one last kiss, and ultimately useless attempt at dulling his hunger, especially when Legolas crushed his lips as fiercely against his. But a moment later, the man felt teeth on his lower lip, playful but sharp; he yelped. 

"Away," Legolas commanded with a faint grin, pulling Aragorn from the tree trunk by his tunic and shoving him in the direction of the camp. The man stumbled slightly in his recovering condition as he threw his hands in the air, bowing his head with a smile before turning to stride back toward the company. 

Legolas crossed his arms as he watched the man go, ignoring the thin braid of hair the wind slid beneath his chin. As Aragorn's form began to melt into the lingering shadows, he shifted, placing a palm gently against the tree and breathing deeply as he felt the rough bark beneath his fingers. He cast his glance upward as the last of the stars slipped without remark beneath a blanket of grey blue, and then set off to join the others. The knot that had so recently been plaguing the pit of his gut seemed to have migrated to nest behind his ribs. Now he could feel the wrapping of tendrils around his heart, causing it alternately to soar and to fall. 

He was finding it difficult to heed his own advice, to cast aside for now whatever worried the edges of his mind to a fray. It was not doubt, but dread, and he had never before felt such a thing. There was reason, always, to fear grief in its bolder strains. Until now, it had forever been a distant fear, detached, as one who watches some wild creature take down its prey, knowing well it could kill you, but seeing no reason why it should. Legolas shook his head and swallowed uneasily, one hand held lightly in a fist against his chest. No, for now he would take, and give, what he could, and keep despair where it loomed bright on the periphery: descend without falling. 

A fog hung heavy in the air, choking the sky and smothering what should have been the dawn's golden light into a palette of barren greys. The sun could not be seen, though it seemed to be rising as usual by the testimony of the dispersing darkness, and a stench was upon the land that cause a rippling of murmurs among the men as they prepared to ride on. Gandalf had already accomplished the duty of rousing Gimli, who was now standing, looking sourly at Arod. The horse was returning the dwarf's attention plaintively, large dark eyes shining as a shudder of breath passed through his wide nostrils and he tossed his head. Legolas smiled when Gimli made an aggravated sound and without any true zeal raised a hand at the animal as if to shoo him away. Arod only whickered again. 

Aragorn was busy fastening the last of his gear to Hasufel's saddle, and the great grey horse pranced sideways impatiently. As the elf approached, he listened as the man calmed the animal with a few soft whispers, and the steed's hooves fell silent. Legolas passed him by to clap Gimli on the shoulder. 

"Not ready yet, Gimli?" the elf asked with one eyebrow neatly arched, and the stallion opposite the dwarf nickered, stamping one foot into the soft grass. 

Gimli grunted, scowling at the horse in front of him and shaking his head. "I'm ready enough, Master Elf," he replied, loathe to take his eyes off the beast at any moment. "I can carry my things quite well on my own. An' besides, jus' where do you suggest I pack anythin' on this ... creature?" he added, gesturing to the bare steed. 

Though the action begged his attention, the elf refrained from snorting in mock indignation. Instead, he crossed his arms and straightened his back. "I merely thought you might be on the horse and waiting for departure, master Dwarf," Legolas responded with high brows as he returned the endearing formality. 

Gimli finally removed his gaze from the horse to glare at the elf with horrified amazement, his jaw working soundlessly beneath his beard for some time before he clamped it shut at last with a click of his teeth. He was about to retort when the horns sounded the host's departure, and Legolas leapt easily onto Arod's back to hold out a hand. His smile might have been smugly triumphant, but instead it was only understanding, and the dwarf grumbled something soft enough even the elf could not discern it before stepping up to accept the offered hand. The stallion sidestepped as Legolas pulled Gimli up behind him, and the last thing anyone heard before the thunder of hooves was upon the air was the gruff exclamation of, "Miserable beast!" 

The road here was well tended, and the going was easy as they entered Nan Curunír; the bleakness of the landscape, though, caused many a rider to catch his breath. While the land had once been a fair world of richness and greenery, it was now a torn and desolate scape of thorn and weed, of upturned and razed earth. Broken and shattered rock dusted the field of grey soil. Even to those who had never seen the Wizard's Vale in lighter days might imagine from the tattered and axe-torn stumps of the great wood what it might have once been. Smoke and steam mingled in hollows and crouched heavily over the land around them, lending a worry to the silent riders who began now to doubt the outcome of their journey's end. The only sound that met their ears was the stony wash of the river and the clatter of horses' hooves upon the battered earth. 

Legolas's heart lurched at the sight, and an unearthly cry as he had never before heard came to him. It tore its way through his head and down his backbone before it swirled around within his chest: the cry of a dying land betrayed, of the fragments of tales that had come now to some bitter, untimely end. So heavily was he hit that is hands dropped to steady himself with the grip of Arod's mane. His shoulders slumped forward as his back bent, and without words Gimli knew what it was that caused the elf to cower so. A steady hand found Legolas's shoulder and held on gently, if hesitant in its reassurance. The dwarf remained silent, for even his own heart was marked with sorrow in the face of this malignant display. He sighed and squeezed the elf lightly as they rode on, and Legolas slowly regained his composure. The river ran here again, and with luck the world could begin to rebuild itself. 

From atop Hasufel, Aragorn saw the elf's reaction, and he fought to still his seat and hold his hands steady as he nearly rode over to him. But they had come at last to a great stone in the earth painted with the likeness of a white hand, its fingers pointing northward, and it was clear they were nearly upon Isengard. The mists remained impenetrable to their eyes, calling for a sharp watch out into the mists, and the ranger told himself, in all truth, that Gimli was capable of giving Legolas as much comfort as was possible now. He breathed deeply of the stark air and smoothed the worried line of his brow, returning his attention to the road. The path beneath them had become paved, though no longer did any blade of grass grace the cracks and breaks of the stone, and Aragorn continued to look ahead for signs of their destination. 

Suddenly the landscape changed as they entered between the walls of the mountain that rose up on either side. Houses sprung up from the land, just within visibility. Halls, chambers and passages were carved into the walls of stone that curved around to the west, north and east, leaving the only entranceway open to the south. The plain, too was carved with shafts and tunnels, their tops covered in domes of stone that cast the land as some deathly haunt. All the roads that ran between these delving mines bore down upon the centre of the plain, where stood a great tower that seemed wrought from the earth itself by the hand of no man. Orthanc, the stronghold of Saruman, stood darkly before them, half shrouded in the distant choking sky that surrounded its spire: a shadow barely visible beneath the smog. 

They rode on over the sodden earth, passing now near the doors to Isengard which rested torn and broken upon the ground. Rock lay strewn in ruinous heaps, shattered and broken in great mounds, which beyond them could be seen peeking dreadfully out from beneath the flood that had claimed the inner ring. They could see where the water splashed and pulled at the foot of the tower that remained somehow unbroken beneath this storm. The company marvelled as the sight, for it seemed to them that Saruman's power was overthrown, though by what means they could not yet guess. 

They rode on over the wet road, and Gimli's hand slowly slipped from the elf's shoulder as they stared at the chaotic, but silent tableau laid out before their eyes. No one seemed able to speak as the strides of the horses began to fall with soft sucking noises in the ever dampening ground. At last the sight of two figures atop a pile of stone near the doors caught the attention of the king and his men. One seemed to be sleeping amidst a mess of bottles and bowls that one would expect to find at a feast; the other rested not far off, his back against a ridge of rock as he rested, puffing small rings of smoke from his mouth every now and again. 

Amidst the wreckage of Isengard, this appeared to be the strangest sight of all, and the group approached with as much curiosity as apprehension. Of a sudden, the smoking figure leapt to his feet, pipe in hand, to show himself as a person of small stature, half a man one might say, with curling brown hair and a cloak that, though battle stained, matched those of Gandalf's company. 

After a pause, the small figure bowed and welcomed them all to Isengard, introducing both himself and his friend, whom he now bothered with a dig of his foot, and announcing that the Wizard Saruman and his friend Wormtongue remained trapped within the tower above. Isengard, the short figure explained, was now under the management of Treebeard, who had left them with instructions to watch the ruined doors for any passing visitors. 

Gimli immediately berated the pair of hobbits, launching into a great tirade about their arduous journey, the hundreds of leagues and battles and death they had suffered whilst on the hunt for their two friends. And here they had stumbled upon them drinking and smoking pipe weed! Legolas could not help but smile at the dwarf's state; he was uncertain as to what might be the cause of Gimli's seemingly imminent explosion -- rage, or sheer joy. 

But Merry and Pippin were found, and safe, and this was in the end all that came to matter to the Three Hunters. After the hobbits had introduced themselves and their kind to the king's company, Théoden and Éomer along with the rest of their men departed with Gandalf to go in search of Treebeard. Aragorn, Gimli, and Legolas remained behind with the two hobbits, letting their horses stray in search of good grazing. The Hunters shared their desire to learn about the travels of their small friends, and in turn Merry and Pippin announced they wished to learn more of this seemingly spectacular Hunt as well. Legolas bid the hobbits go first, but Gimli protested any further action in favour of a meal, complaining of a sore head and requesting the hobbits proffer a share of this plunder they boasted. 

Merry and Pippin were happy, of course, to share what food and drink they had found, and the companions set off for the simple comforts of what remained of the well-stocked guard house, whose store rooms had been high enough to be spared by the flood. Gimli showed a particular interest in how the hobbits had stumbled across the pipe weed, but they promised him that story later. At last, they took some well earned respite at a table by a cozy fire, and when Pippin produced a pipe to replace the one Gimli had lost in Moria, the dwarf declared the score to be settled between them. 

At this, they were content to settle back, pretending as though they were once again within the comforts of Rivendell, and end enjoy each other's company as they began to share the tales behind their separate journeys that had once again led them to the same path. 

* * *

**thenon** - short one  
**Lind lín matha faer nín, meldir** - Your song touches my spirit, friend.  
**Sedho vae** - Rest well.  
**Orthach 'uren ir tirich enni, meleth nín** - You lift up my heart when you look at me, my love. 

* * *

**silvertoekee:** Thanks greatly for your constant reviews and support :) It really means a lot. I'm glad you enjoyed chapter 7! It really wouldn't be right to make this into anything other than a tragedy, but I hate making them suffer so.  
**Lady of Nimrodel:** Thank you so much :) *turns red* This chapter's been a bit long in the works but I hope it meets the standards of the others, I worry I'll forget how to speak English sometimes.  
**Kel:** Glad you are liking it! It's getting more difficult to predict them both, and Aragorn's been driving me crazy with his sense of honour... *grins*  
**Gwyn:** Sorry this one took so long! But thank you for all of your encouraging words!  
**The:** Oh yes, this really can't be too happy of an ending, but I think they're coming to realise the value of this at last... slightly thick skulls these guys sometimes.. :) Thank you, I am so glad you're enjoying it.  
**rumpy:** Thanks! I love the dwarf, he's hard to write, but I hope I am doing his part justice.  
**Maria Christina:** Thank you :)  
**Chrissy:** I do find myself having to cut my sentences short sometimes, but I am happy you find it intriguing! Hope this chapter is enjoyable :) 


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